Uncommon Tales: Tales of the Jade King
by Katharine Faith
Summary: *Co-authored with TreeHugger!!* Scroll One... Legolas, Tavor and Brethil are up to tricks as usual. ^_^ Meanwhile, King Thranduil goes out on a hunting trip, but doesn't come home...and Tanglinna must find him, before it's too late... Chapter Three!!
1. Introduction

**The Uncommon Tales__**

_Tales of the Jade King: Scroll One_

**_Introduction_**

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**Katharine's opening remarks…**

            Greetings, readership!  Welcome to the first edition of _Tales of the Jade King_,_ the third installment in the __Uncommon Tales series, and the first story that I—Katharine—have ever co-authored with another person here at FF.net.  Yes, that's right, the magnificent TreeHugger is collaborating with me on this one!  Woohoo!  *Happy dances*  Just in case anyone out there had any doubts, Tree is an absolutely outstanding lady, and I have been tremendously blessed to have gotten to know her during the course of this _Tale's_ conception and crafting.  Go you, __melaglar nin!  ^_^_

            A few notes at the outset…

            First of all, this _Tale_ is completely unrelated to the first two, so it isn't necessary to read the previous _Tales in order to understand and appreciate this one.  Second, this story takes place in the LOTR universe I formed for my other work in progress, __The Weeping Wraith; that is, Legolas' family (except Thranduil, of course) is entirely of my making.  As noted in the summary, however, Lady TreeHugger is co-writing this venture, and she is allowing me to borrow Tanglinna and the Tricksy Trio, so they will be woven into the TWW universe for the time being.  ^_^  _

            Also, the timeline for this _Tale_ is somewhat unusual.  I've been using the FOTR movie's age for Legolas, which placed him at 2,931 years old.  That would put his birth at TA 87, according to the _Tale of Years in Appendix B of the LOTR trilogy.  _Tales of the Jade King: Scroll One_ takes place in TA 113, which makes Legolas about 26 years old…the equivalent of about nine human years.  Everyone may want to crack out the appropriate Appendix and check out what was going on at that time, because the world was quite a bit different then…_

             A few bits of forewarning: the partnership of TreeHugger and myself is likely to produce somewhat bipolar results.  For instance, this edition of _Tales of the Jade King_ is slated to contain alternating bouts of hysterical funniness and rending angst, as well as a good dose of unbelievable cuteness (á la Tree) and gut-ripping suspense (á la Katharine).  Be aware that this _Tale will include spells of battle violence, mild gore, and some fairly ugly torture; the rating __might ascend from PG to PG-13 later on, depending on how nasty things get.  Oy, and there will also be a Very Bad Man™.  Flame him if you wish; Tree and I own him, and we will be happy to roast him over a cheery flame or two.  *Sings*  "Bad Man roasting over an open fire…readers laughing at his woes…"  Ahem, sorry, got a little caught up there.  Me being so Christmasy and all.  ^_~_

            Oh, and both Tree and I very much enjoy reviews.  They make us happy campers.  ^_^  Feel free to address either one of us via the review board or via email; we will be responding individually to reader comments at the end of each chapter.

            Finally, the standard disclaimer… neither one of us owns anything in Master Tolkien's universe, we're not making any money off of this work, and we promise to put all the toys back in the toybox when we're through making them miserable—uh, I mean, when we're done playing with them.  Lawsuit notices, subpoenas, nasty emails, and other such rubbish will be given to Thundril the mini-Balrog for his kindling collection.  

            I think that's about all I can think of for now!  Enjoy!

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**TreeHugger's opening remarks…**

Well, it looks like Kate covered just about everything and didn't leave me anything to talk about!   She probably didn't want me to get a rampant case of Brethilitis. . . looks like she caught it instead.  O_^  She is quite right about the bipolar relationship we have.  She seems to glory in the pain, angst, blood, screams in the night.  I like those too, I just do not want to be the one to write them!  Well, yes, Bronadui, Brethil's Ada, was slated for slaughter before he jumped universes.  Lucky me!  I still didn't have to write it!  Cute mischievous children are much more my style.  Though with all the death, torture, and mayhem Kate has planned, *Tree groans and grasps her temples* the children are not going to be happy either.  O.O,  That little comma is a teardrop for the poor little Elflings (especially Legolas and Brethil), not a comma.  

What more can I say?  She has covered her *unusual* time frame, and the collaboration.  She has covered the disclaimer and the mini-Balrog.  She has even covered the Very Bad Man.  I am betting it WILL be PG13 before *she* is done with it, if the Very Bad Man (VBM) has anything to say about it. . . and he does have a lot to say!  Let me be the first to say it :  "Poor Thranduil!"  

We both sincerely hope that you like this tale.  Now showing for your reading enjoyment – _Tales of the Jade King:  Scroll One.___

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	2. Archery Here, Archery There

**The Uncommon Tales__**

_Tales of the Jade King: Scroll One_

**_Chapter One: Archery Here, Archery There_**

**The tale begins…**

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            Greenwood the Great's pathways rang of autumn's cool advance.  The oft-used trails that meandered amidst the mottled oaks and silvery beeches had become scenes of nature's gaiety, as the fallen leaves skittered and danced on the wind.  Many a Silvan Elf smiled appreciatively at the vibrant colors of the woodland's seasonal change; Greenwood had shed her cloak of emerald with the summer's passing, taking on instead vivid hues of gold, crimson, ginger, russet, and indigo.  The migratory birds twittered and piped merrily in the branches, which were no longer the concealing haven that they had been throughout the summer months; the boughs and twigs were swiftly baring their bark to the wind, their brightly colored leaves to join the cheery dance on the pathways below.

            At the end of one of those paths was a large, grassy clearing that hosted several archery targets of varying size.  It was in this leaf-strewn glade that warriors of the Woodland Realm honed their skills with the bow and feather-fletched arrows.  From the time young Elves were old enough to walk steadily and unaided, they learned the use of these weapons.  The Greenwood was well known for her fine archers; it was said, in fact, that the Silvan Elves were the best marksmen to be found anywhere in Middle-earth.  The development and perfection of such ability, however, required expert guidance and supervision.  Thus, here at the practice field, Tanglinna was master.

            Tanglinna had served as Master Archer under the obdurate King Oropher; but since the old king had been slain amid the horror of Dagorlad, Tanglinna now served Thranduil, Oropher's equally tenacious son.  The Master Archer had instructed countless generations of young Sindarin and Silvan Elves for as long anyone could remember.  Some of the best archers in Middle-earth had learned their craft under his tutelage. But none could best their teacher as of yet.  He was an exacting taskmaster, and did not abide laziness or inattentiveness in his students.  He was stern of visage, his grey eyes as sharp as a hawk's; also, he was more apt to bark out a criticism than offer praise.  None dared to cross him except Thranduil, and even the king did not often gainsay him.

            On this particular day, a gaggle of young archers was practicing the rapid-fire technique on the field.  It was a skill that had to be mastered before they would be allowed to accompany their elders on simple hunting forays in the deep forest, for the seemingly effortless swift-draw method had saved many a life when the hunter became the hunted.  Tanglinna watched his young pupils impassively, arms folded across his chest; his bow was cradled against him, as much a part of him as his arm or hand.  He stood several feet behind the Elflings, well knowing that arrows would fly awry when this particular skill was practiced.  Usually, the fledgling archers were so intent on pulling the arrows quickly from their quivers that they did not take time to aim.

            All of the young ones were dressed in belted tunics of muted green with brown leggings tucked into leather boots; the outfits were comfortable and unrestrictive, perfect for archery practice.  They were not, however, loose-fitting or sloppy—the supremely disciplined and orderly Master Archer would never have permitted such attire.  The younglings also wore armguards on their bow arms, and their quivers were fastened behind them for convenient use, the feathered practice shafts standing above their slim shoulders.  Each Elfling had his strengths and weaknesses; Tanglinna watched over them all, eyes narrowed in concentration.

            Young Brethil Bronaduion always managed to whip the arrow from his quiver quite well, but then he would pause, his tongue clamped between his lips, as he carefully nocked it and slowly took aim.  Glavrol was one who never bothered to take care as to where his shafts flew when released.  His arrows struck the trees, the ground, disappeared into the forest beyond, and even on occasion hit the target, though Tanglinna was well aware that such occurrences were purely accidental. To the Master Archer's immense amusement, the trees actually began to murmur in dismay whenever the dark haired youth took up his bow and arrows. 

Tavor was technically the best in the class, something that he never allowed the others to forget. Since Tanglinna decidedly frowned on his cockiness, he was certain not to brag until they were far from the archery field.  Mithereg was improving greatly, and Tanglinna knew he would be the first to master his skills with the necessary poise and seriousness that Tavor lacked.  Talagan tried very hard, but his long hands were more skilled on the harp string than on the bowstring.  Nevertheless, the Master Archer knew that the youngster would one day become as adept with the weapons as he was with his beloved instrument.  

The last student in the class was young Prince Legolas.  Tanglinna watched as his king's youngest son whipped an arrow from his quiver.  The shaft immediately slipped from the slim fingers, and flew end over end to land in the grass a few feet away.  The princeling froze in place, and the Master Archer could imagine the look of humiliation and annoyance on his face.  Tanglinna's shoulders shook slightly with barely discernable amusement; he well remembered similar expressions on Thranduil's own face.  Indeed, it was with an eerily familiar dignity that Legolas' back stiffened, and another arrow was whipped from the quiver—only to sail through the air and sink into the ground beside the first one.  The prince's hands clenched at his sides in frustration, and he shifted restlessly from one foot to the other before moving once more into a shooting stance.  

            Tanglinna shook his silvery head and moved to stand at the youngling's shoulder.  "You are not grasping the arrow correctly, _nin caun," he said quietly.  He did not wish to draw unwanted attention to the princeling; that would undoubtedly embarrass Legolas to no end, and that was not Tanglinna's intention.  "Here is where you take it," he murmured.  The strong, slim hands of the elder adeptly guided those of his young charge._

            Legolas frowned—again, a familiar expression—then straightened his back once more and drew another arrow.  This time it didn't fling itself from his fingers, and he smiled in pleased relief.  Tanglinna said nothing, but instead moved on to Brethil.  While the others had already shot through two bundles of arrows, Brethil had only worked his way through one.  To his credit, all of the Elfling's shots had landed expertly near the center of the target, while those of his peers had mostly flown astray, but precision was not the purpose of this particular exercise.  Tanglinna drifted to stand over Brethil's shoulder, and as he had done for Legolas, he lowered his voice to a discreet murmur.

            "Brethil, this is the rapid-fire technique.  You need to be****_fast_.  Accuracy will come later."

            The young one turned to look up at his mentor, his brows knitted worrisomely over pale grey eyes.  "I know, Master Tanglinna," Brethil sighed, shaking his head and tugging on his long, nearly white-haired braid, "but I am having trouble setting the arrow to the string quickly, and I thought that since I am taking so much time at that then why not take time to aim accurately as well?  If enemies were attacking me I might at least manage to hit one with a well-placed arrow.  Glavrol will have fired many arrows to my one, but they would all miss, most likely.  Tavor and Mithereg would fell the enemies undoubtedly.  They are very good, aren't they?"  He gazed at the two in undisguised admiration.  "Talagan could sing the enemies to sleep with his harp and lovely voice, and Legolas, well, he might get fairly good at throwing the arrows at them with his hands."  He cocked his head to one side as he watched Legolas practice.  The young prince was flinging his arrow in the air less often now.  "I think—" 

            "Enough," Tanglinna broke in, knowing very well that the youngling's monologue could last for hours if it wasn't checked.  Truly, he had often thought that Brethil should trade names with Glavrol, whose name meant "to babble."  No one in Greenwood babbled better than Brethil.  "Enough.  You must shoot faster.  Now."   With that admonition, the Master Archer turned and paced away, forestalling another onslaught of words from the younger Elf.  He heard Brethil's slight sigh, and after that, the ponderous _twang_ of another arrow's methodical release.

            Mithereg and Tavor were having a subtle, friendly rivalry.  Tavor's face was glowing with a triumphant smirk, clearly stating that he was winning their little competition—that is, until he became aware that Master Archer's eyes were fixed on them.  Tavor blinked, schooling his features to more appropriate neutrality and nonchalance.  Mithereg, unconcerned about Tanglinna's stare, brushed a stray strand of rich brown hair from his eyes and grinned at Tavor.  He then proceeded to send five perfectly aimed arrows into the target in rapid succession.  Tavor's self-assurance faltered just a bit as the victory slipped from his fingers.

            Talagan made a small noise of joy as he managed to hit the target three consecutive times.  Tanglinna turned, nodding to himself with pleasure at the progress that the young musician had made.  Then he grunted, merely barking out his usual "Again!"  The brisk directive caused the chestnut-haired harpist to start in surprise, his green eyes widening at his instructor's curt acknowledgement.  Then, Tanglinna turned his attention back to his prince.

            Legolas was also doing better, having managed to send a few of his arrows flying into the target.  His face shone with elation as he turned to see if anyone had noticed.  The Master Archer narrowed his eyes as Brethil smiled at his friend, nodding encouragingly.  That one was just beginning on his second bundle of arrows while Tavor and Mithereg were on their sixth, Talagan on his fifth, and Legolas his fourth. It seemed that "fast" wasn't in Brethil's rather extensive vocabulary. 

            "Now, Brethil!" Tanglinna called out, by now unconcerned as to whether the Elfling would be embarrassed by the rebuke.  "Faster!"  

            Greenwood's prince found himself grimacing in sympathy for his meticulous friend, until he noticed that Old Sourpuss' disapproving gaze was suddenly turned upon him.  Legolas frowned to himself, turning back to the target.  He and the others were doing much better than they had been, he thought.  Why did Tanglinna always look like he was disgusted with their progress?  He was _never pleased with them, it seemed._

            _Someday I will be the best archer in Greenwood, the princeling thought, yanking an arrow from the quiver.  He was determined to show Tanglinna what he could do, for he was now certain that he had practiced quite enough to be rather good at it.  __Even Old Sourpuss will **have** to notice!  The arrow flew true and landed in the target a few inches from the center.  Legolas didn't allow himself time to gloat, although a satisfied smirk touched his lips as the second arrow flew in the wake of the first one.  The second shaft, however, missed the target completely, and landed in the brush beneath the trees beyond.  The prince winced and looked about sheepishly before grabbing another arrow._

            King Thranduil covered a smile and shook his golden head before moving into the clearing.  His feet were silent as he crossed the autumn-browned grass, his eyes on his future warriors.  He was very pleased with what he had witnessed; they were all trying very hard to master this most necessary skill.  The king had seen many, many generations of young Elves practicing under the Master Archer.  Too, he could well recall his own time spent with the slim practice bow in hand; fingers stinging and sore, with Tanglinna an ever-present apparition standing at his shoulder, watching and gauging every move, every flaw, and every perfect shot.

            Now, it was Thranduil who came to stand at his Master Archer's side.  Tanglinna, who had been aware of his king's presence for some time, acknowledged him with a nod of his head, his eyes never leaving his young charges.

            "How are they faring?" Oropher's son asked, his voice pitched low enough to be mostly drowned out by the thudding of the shafts hitting the targets.

            Tanglinna made a noncommittal noise in his throat, and Thranduil smiled appreciatively.  The Master Archer would never change, something that the king was intensely grateful for.  Within the preceding century, Greenwood had experienced the most terrible upheavals she had ever seen in her long history.  Dagorlad was little more than a hundred years past, and its horrors were still fresh in Thranduil's mind.  He had seen two-thirds of the Elves from Greenwood and Lothlórien cut down by the Enemy's brutal resistance.  King Oropher, the first Lord of the Woodland Realm and the father of Thranduil, had been among the first of those to fall, pierced to the heart by black-feathered shafts.  _And my beloved Astalaewen died only two years ago…_  Thranduil sighed inwardly at the memory and pushed it away.  Indeed, the Woodland Realm had undergone great turmoil in recent years.  That was why the king so valued Tanglinna's steady temperament; it had long been a point of stability in a storm of events that Thranduil was helpless to prevent or control.  

            "Going hunting, _aranhîr?_" Tanglinna asked without turning, having noted out of the corner of one eye his king's brown and green riding leathers.

            "Yes.  We will be riding east today."  A slightly roguish smile touched the Elvenking's lips, and the slate-gray eyes flared briefly with rare delight.

            Tanglinna smiled as well.  He was vastly amused at the childlike joy he saw in the king's expression at the prospect of spending a few days on the hunt.  Thranduil was no better than the young Elflings at times.  "Is Curulin accompanying you?" Tanglinna asked, thinking of his colleague, Greenwood's merry Master Huntsman.  At Thranduil's nod, Tanglinna grinned slyly.  "I wonder what song he will sing for you this time," he remarked quietly, his eyes sliding to his king.  He saw the twitch of amused remembrance on the Elvenking's lips.  

            "Bronadui is coming as well," Thranduil said, his gaze flitting to the son of the warrior he had named.  Brethil was making his ponderous way through his second bundle of arrows, and was nearly ready to begin a third.  Thranduil shook his head slightly and hid a grin, knowing that the youngling's painstaking ways were cause for much frustration on Tanglinna's part.  "As are Marthul and Amarthiach," he continued.

            Tanglinna gave a considering nod.  "'Twill be a cheery company, it seems.  Who among the young warriors do you intend to take?"

            "Síralaith and Nevenneth," Thranduil replied, then added somewhat impishly, "as per your recommendation, of course."

            The Master Archer did not even crack a smile.  "Of course," he said matter-of-factly.

            Suddenly, their attention was drawn to Legolas.  The princeling grinned wildly, throwing a fist in the air in triumph as his two last arrows sank into the target.  He turned to fetch another bundle of arrows, and as he did so, his sparkling eyes caught sight of Thranduil.  The child's face lit from within, obviously thrilled to see his father.  Legolas started to drop the bow on the ground, but when two pairs of eyebrows shot up in rapid disapproval and reprimand, he trotted over to the elder Elves, his slender bow kept dutifully in hand.

            "Ada!" he chirped, bowing slightly as he remembered his manners.  His grin threatened to split his beaming face, and he seemed about to burst with exhilaration and pride.  "Did you see me?  Did you see, Ada?" Legolas asked excitedly, flinging himself into his father's waiting arms.   The princeling was young enough to get away with ignoring royal decorum most of the time, and he was rewarded with a fierce hug.

            "You did very well, Little Greenleaf, very well indeed.  You will make a fine archer one day," Thranduil told his youngest, smiling broadly.

            Tanglinna harrumphed, and crossed his arms over his chest once more.  "You should have seen him just a bit earlier, _aranhîr_," he said, turning slightly to stare down at the young one, who released his father, his cheeks reddening.  "He was trying to teach us a new way to use the arrows."

            Thranduil raised one dark brow in query.  Legolas' face flamed even more, and he lifted his chin and stared up at the Master Archer boldly, imbued with courage by his royal father's presence.  "Just watch me," he declared, then moved to grab up a bundle of arrows and take his place before the target once more.  As before, his slim back was stiff and proud.

            "I wonder where he gets such overweening pride," Tanglinna muttered to his king without the slightest timidity.  "It wasn't from his mother, I am certain."

            Thranduil suppressed a smile as he crossed his arms over his chest, watching his son preparing to send another volley of shafts across the clearing.  "Perhaps it is from his grandsire, who seemed to think that overweening pride was the only way to counter a very sarcastic and demanding Master Archer who was never satisfied," he replied dryly.  

            Tanglinna snorted and narrowed his grey eyes, but a small smile touched his lips at the memory of the Woodland Realm's first king.  Oropher had been difficult at times, but his people had loved him, and he had been a good king despite his willfulness.  "It would appear to be a family trait," the Master Archer commented, his eyes riveted on the slain king's youngest grandson.  Legolas' face was set in grimly determined lines as he glared at the target, slender fingers twitching as he prepared to yank an arrow from his quiver.

            Thranduil secretly hoped that the child would succeed fantastically.  He wanted to see the neutral expression on his Master Archer's face slip a bit.  In fact, Thranduil decided with a fiendish grin that he felt like tweaking Tanglinna.  "Perhaps you might let Legolas join us on the hunting trip," Thranduil said softly into the elder Elf's ear, hoping to avoid alerting his youngest as to his scheme; Legolas did not need the added pressure.  "If he makes the shots."

            Tanglinna glanced at his king, his brows quirking in annoyance.  He knew exactly what Thranduil was up to.  "You know the rules, _aranhîr," he replied coolly.  "This skill must be __mastered before they are allowed on hunting trips.  Your youngling is far from achieving that."_

            "All the same, I am the king of Greenwood, and I say that if he makes the shots then he goes," Thranduil answered staunchly.

            "And I say that he will not make the shots, so there is no point to this conversation," Tanglinna fired back.  With that, the two elders looked to the object of their debate, and they waited in thick silence for Legolas to begin.

            Legolas' sharp ears had picked up most of their quiet words, and he felt a thrill of joy.  A hunting trip with his Ada!   His first hunting trip!  Today!  He knew he was too young for the hunting forays, but all the same, he desperately wished to go.  He could picture himself atop his horse, riding out with his father and the others, his bow slung across his back like he'd seen on some of the older warriors, his quiver filled—not with dull tipped practice arrows, but with real arrows, with real points, sharpened to a killing edge.  Hunting sounded so exciting and wonderful, and now he might be able to go with his Ada…if he could just make the shots.  Legolas drew himself up, preparing to draw and fire the two arrows in quick succession as he had before.  Just as his arm shot back to grasp the first, however, Tanglinna cleared his throat loudly.

            "_Five arrows **_in_** the target, my prince…and they had better be fast." _

            Legolas halted in mid-motion, the words jarring his concentration.  He didn't notice the exasperated look his father shot at the Master Archer.  All he could think about was the fact that the other fledgling warriors had noticed some of what was going on.  They had all turned to see that the King had joined them, and after bowing respectfully, they had moved from the practice range to stand clumped together like little wide-eyed birds.  Now, they were all watching intently to see if Legolas could do what was asked of him.

            "He'll never do it," Tavor whispered to Mithereg.  The former, who had been bested at last by the latter, was still smarting from the loss, and so was feeling rather ungracious.  

            "He might," Talagan said in his musical voice, his eyes hopeful.  "He has gotten much better just today."  

            Glavrol nodded, knowing that the prince had landed more in the target then he had.  Most of his own shafts were lost in the brush, and a few jutted from groaning trees.  The Elfling grimaced and silently promised the trees that he would do better in the future.  

            "He will," Brethil said with a nod.  "He is very determined to be good at this, and you know how stubborn he is.  With the King and Master Tanglinna watching him, he will be even more determined to do it right.  But," he cocked his head to one side, "that will make him even more nervous and he might not do as well as he would have if they weren't watching him.  Have you ever noticed how much Master Tanglinna looks like a hawk?  He is very fierce, isn't he?  And the King—"

            "Shut _up, Brethil," Tavor and the others hissed, then quickly covered their laughter as Legolas turned to glare at them._

            The young prince gave his peers a good hard stare before returning his attention to the target.  Five arrows!  Two he could manage, but five?  His bottom lip thrust out in defiance, and his bright eyes narrowed.  He needed to prove to them all that he could do this.  If he could manage to shoot two with speed and accuracy, then how much harder could five be?

            "I can do this," Legolas murmured to himself.  He drew a deep breath, straightening his back and settling into an archer's stance as he had done so many times that day.  "I can do this."  His father would be very happy and very proud of him, and Master Tanglinna would be—  The princeling flashed a nasty smile at the ground as he checked the spacing of his feet.  Tanglinna would be _very_ shocked, and not at _all happy.  "I can do this!" he repeated._

            The blond head shot up, and the fingers of his right hand flexed in preparation.  Then, in a flurry of fluid movement, he was shooting the arrows.  One right after the other they hurtled through the air.

            _Thunk!  Thunk!  Thunk!_

            The first three shafts landed solidly in the target, and Legolas felt a brief thrill of elation.  His fingers closed about the fourth arrow and swiftly nocked it, then sent it flying.  It too hit the target, but his hand was already on the fifth arrow.  The princeling whipped it over his shoulder toward the bowstring, just as he had done with the previous four…but this arrow slipped from his grasp and went sailing through the air.  It landed upright a few feet away, the arrow's hardened tip buried in the ground.

            "He really is getting very good at throwing them with his hands," Brethil commented brightly.

            Legolas stared at the arrow in disbelief.  He blinked several times, hoping that it was merely his sight that was at fault.  Surely he hadn't missed on the last arrow.  Surely he hadn't flung it from his fingers again in such an undignified and ungraceful manner.  Surely he hadn't missed on the _last _arrow!__

            But there it was, the feathers pointed at him as if in blatant accusation.

            "No," the young prince whispered under his breath, no longer feeling the bow in his hand.  "_No."_

            Tanglinna glanced at Thranduil, the bland expression on his face all but shouting "I told you so."  Then, as was customary, the Master Archer grunted his acknowledgement, and followed that with a carefully neutral remark.

            "Not quite five arrows in the target, _nin caun_."

            Legolas looked at his father, his eyes filled with utter disappointment.  "But I got four," he said, his hand gripping the wood of the bow.  "Four!  Can't I go, Ada?  Please?"

            Thranduil drew in a breath, held it for three beats of his heart, and exhaled softly.  Legolas had evidently heard at least part of his conversation with Tanglinna.  _Drat the selective hearing of the young_, the king thought wryly, remembering quite a few times when he had overheard "adult" conversations in his own far-gone youth.  Thranduil covered his disappointment with a gentle smile and held out a hand toward his hopeful son.  "Come here, little Greenleaf."

            As Legolas did so, his bright expression wavering between hopeful anxiety and woeful uncertainty, Thranduil let his ash-hued eyes slide briefly to the side to take in Tanglinna's response.  The Master Archer's face was nearly expressionless as he gave a slight shake of his silvery head; however, Thranduil thought he detected a fleeting glint of surprised admiration for the accuracy of the youngest prince's shots, and perhaps even a small measure of disappointment that the child had _not been able to meet the requirement.  Despite his stern manner and unrelenting demands for improvement, Tanglinna truly did want his students to do well.  In fact, as the king well knew, archery was one skill that no Elf of the Greenwood dared lack in, and so Tanglinna would press his pupils toward perfection until the day they received their warrior braids.  __And even after that, Thranduil mused._

            Legolas slipped his small hand into his father's long-fingered grip.  "Please, Ada?" he asked again, his voice barely a whisper, his silver eyes huge in the early morning's sunlight.

            Thranduil gave his youngest child's delicate hand an affectionate squeeze.  "I am sorry, little Greenleaf," he said in a quiet, sympathetic voice.  "You did very well today, but you did miss the last arrow."  The king's heart stung at his son's wronged expression, but he kept his tone low and steady.  "I am certain that if you continue practicing as you have been, you will soon be able to accompany me."

            In all truth, Thranduil knew that Legolas was far too young for such a hunting expedition.  While they were at times great fun, and though they were rife with the joy of camaraderie and friendly competition between the warriors, hunts also held any number of dangers.  The fleet-footed stags were fiercely protective of their females and young; wild boars were wily and unpredictable, and therefore made fairly risky prey.  An untried warrior could easily fall victim to glistening antler points or flashing tusks.  It was not merely accuracy and the master of the rapid-fire technique that Legolas lacked; it was the confidence and maturity that only time and more practice would bring.  A hunter could not afford to hesitate for any reason when faced with a charging, maddened beast, and Thranduil knew that his little Greenleaf was far too young to have acquired the instinct necessary to cope with such a fearsome situation.  

            Legolas, however, did not have his sire's experience or foresight.  He could not think beyond his own failure, and the opportunity he had lost as a result.  His head drooped forward, a curtain of golden strands falling between his crestfallen expression and his father's gaze.  His slim fingers clenched about the smooth, familiar weight of his bow, which he still held clutched in his treacherous right hand.  The other hand lay limp and dejected in Thranduil's grasp.  And slowly he nodded, his eyes boring miserably into the trampled grass before his booted feet.

            Thranduil gave another inward sigh and drew his child closer, still gripping Legolas' little fingers between his own large ones, and he laid his other hand on the princeling's slim, tense shoulder.  He knew that anything he said would likely fall on ears deaf to everything but the dull roar of sore disappointment—_selective hearing, indeed_—but he felt compelled to explain more clearly to the child why he was not to be allowed on the hunt.  "Legolas, _nin meliôn_, you will be ready soon enough," he said softly.  "I understand your frustration, little one.  Truly, you are doing very well!"  There was no response, and Thranduil continued, "I realize that it seems unfair to you, but there are good reasons for the rules your teachers set down for you.  Your brother and sisters chafed beneath them, as did I when I was your age—"  At that, Tanglinna gave a snort, but Thranduil ignored him and resumed, "But they are necessary.  I think of your safety above all else, my son, and that is why I cannot let you go on the hunt today.  Do you understand?"

            Legolas remained silent, and nodded his bent head once more because it was expected of him.  Thranduil sighed aloud then, knowing that his little princeling would not see the wisdom in this for some time to come.  He hugged the child to him and ran a hand down the back of Legolas' blond head, then tugged playfully at the intricate braid.  "Perhaps one day Master Tanglinna and I will take all of you to hunt squirrels," he suggested with a grin, his gray eyes lifting to sweep over the other younglings, who had stood in respectful silence during the low conversation between the king and the prince.

            Tanglinna shrugged noncommittally in response, but the Elflings' responses were much more enthusiastic.  Tavor and Mithereg grinned delightedly at each other, plans already blossoming in their minds.  Glavrol, too, seemed pleased at the thought.  Talagan chewed his lip and glanced uncertainly at his target, which boasted only a few arrows (as most of them had found resting places in the brush beyond the target).  Brethil, of course, looked like he wanted to say something, but he shut his mouth at Tanglinna's warning stare.

            Thranduil was glad to see the effect on the younglings, and he turned his attention back down to Legolas.  The child still stood with his eyes downcast; it seemed that even his father's latest offer could not reach him.  "Well, Legolas?" he asked softly, as Tanglinna directed the other Elflings to continue their practice.  "Do you like that idea?"  

            "Yes, Ada," Legolas answered quietly, not looking up.  He noted the movement of a small bug by his left foot, and followed its progress with his eyes, for he did not wish to meet his sire's gaze.  Despite Thranduil's explanation and proposition, the princeling's failure still smarted, and he stubbornly refused to be consoled.

            Thranduil shook his golden head slightly, clearly seeing much of himself in his youngest child.  He swiftly knelt before Legolas and placed a long finger beneath the Elfling's chin, raising his son's silveron eyes to lock with his own.  "You truly did well today, _iôn nin_," he said with a reassuring smile.  "I am very proud of you."  His gaze flicked aside to regard Tanglinna's continuing work with the other young archers.  "As is Tanglinna, although he may never say as much directly."

            Legolas' rounded features creased in confusion; obviously, the concept that Tanglinna was _proud_ of him was utterly foreign.  Thranduil continued, "The Master Archer may not say aloud what he feels, young one, but much is revealed in his actions and expressions.  You need only take heed of them, and you will learn what he is not saying with his tongue.  Look now, and tell me what you see."

            The princeling turned and followed his father's gaze.  Tanglinna was once again trying to explain to Brethil that he must shoot _faster_ if he wished to accomplish his goal.  The son of Bronadui and Lady Glaurhunant drew in a breath and began to expound at great length as to exactly why he had not yet mastered this skill as well as his fellow Elflings had.  Thranduil, for his part, shook his head in amusement, and his mind traveled for a moment to the day ahead.  As he had remarked to Tanglinna, Bronadui would be accompanying the hunting party.  Thranduil was always glad for the quiet, gentle Silvan Elf's presence.  Bronadui possessed a lightness of heart and an optimistic outlook, which he had passed in some small measure to his only son.  

            Legolas watched with unusual scrutiny as the Master Archer showed Brethil how to pull the arrow swiftly from the quiver, place it to the string, and release it, all within the space of a heartbeat.  Pull, place, pull, release.  Pull, place, pull, release.  Even in his miserable, angry state, the young prince was beginning to see past the mild annoyance evident in the lines of Tanglinna's lean face.  Strangely, Legolas could see, at least in part, the deep-set patience that marked every gesture and word.  He could not quite subdue a grin as he picked up Brethil's steady stream of commentary.  _I'd have told him to **shut up** by now, Legolas thought.  But the Master Archer said nothing of the sort, instead allowing the words to run their course before he spoke to the youngster once more.  Brethil nodded in response to Tanglinna's instructions, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on doing what was asked of him._

            Also, Legolas heard Tanglinna's quiet mantra of "Pull, place, pull, release."  The Master Archer recited it in rhythm with Brethil's shots, until the Elfling chanted it as well.  _Pull, place, pull, release, pull, place, pull, release…_  Finally, Brethil had gotten it!

            Tanglinna moved on to stand by Talagan, but Legolas clearly saw the flash of satisfaction in the silvery eyes, the nod of the head; and the prince understood that these were likely the only praise Brethil would receive for his achievement.  But they were enough.

            "Do you see it now, little Greenleaf?" Thranduil murmured, having noted the Master Archer's subtle approval as well.  "He sees each accomplishment, and though he may not remark upon it audibly, he has noted it.  He is proud of you all."  The king turned his son to face him once more, and rested his fingers against the child's soft cheek.  "And I am proud of you, my son, very proud indeed.  Never forget that."

            Legolas nodded, and Thranduil gave the princeling a warm smile as he stood.  "Good," he said, tousling the blond hair.  He glanced over his future warriors once more, nodding his satisfaction at what he saw.  They would all be an asset to the Woodland Realm one day.  "I must go say farewell to your sisters," Thranduil told Legolas, turning his attention back to the princeling, "for the company is to depart ere the Sun climbs very much higher.  I shall see you in a few days, little one."  And with a pat to Legolas' head and a fond smile of farewell, the king turned and strode out of the clearing, disappearing into the forest as swiftly as he had come.

            The princeling sighed slightly, and turned to watch as Tanglinna moved to stand behind Mithereg and Tavor.  It took every ounce of control Legolas had to stifle his giggle at the Master Archer's expression; Tanglinna stood with arms folded, his eyes narrowed to slits of displeasure, looking for all the world like a hawk bent on carnage.  The reason was readily apparent: Tavor and Mithereg were once again attempting to best each other, instead of concentrating on the task at hand.  Tavor was attempting to keep the satisfied smirk from his handsome young face, without much success, and Mithereg merely grinned unabashedly.  Tanglinna cleared his throat loudly, startling the two younglings, and Mithereg at least managed to look chagrined at the Master Archer's raised eyebrow.  The two continued in their training dutifully, ever mindful of Tanglinna's watchful glare.

            Legolas dropped his gaze to the ground as the overwhelming disappointment swept through him yet again.  His Ada's words had been very kind and had helped somewhat, but when all was said and done, the prince was still not going to be allowed on the hunt.  He wished practice were over, so that he could go and sulk in private, where no one could see him.  He could barely bring himself to nock another arrow to his bowstring, so disheartened was he.

            At last, the sound of arrows thudding into targets died away, and the Elflings moved forward to retrieve their arrows.  Legolas yanked the wayward fifth arrow, the sign of his defeat and humiliation, from the ground.  He stared at it morosely, then wiped dirt from the dull metal tip and shoved it into his quiver.  _Stupid arrow, he thought angrily.  The other four, the ones that had flown true, seemed more a mockery than a real accomplishment.  __Stupid arrows, all of them, the princeling amended._

            Just as Legolas finished stuffing the last of his practice arrows into his quiver, Brethil moved over to join him.  "You did really well, Legolas," the younger Elf murmured, placing a comforting hand on his friend's arm.  "You really are getting very good.  One day you will be at least as good as Master Tanglinna."  Then, he glanced over at the Master Archer, who was quietly scolding Tavor, and leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, "Or better."

            Legolas felt a reluctant smile tugging at his lips as he gazed at Brethil's sincere face.  "Thank you," he muttered, knowing that he could always count on Brethil to make him feel better—or, at least, to try.  The prince accompanied his friend over to his target and began to help Brethil retrieve the arrows.  "You did very well, too," he commented, taking in the careful placement of the red practice shafts.  "They're all near the center, at least."

            "Yes, they are," Brethil agreed, running one finger over the feathered shaft in the middle of the painted bull's eye.  "But Master Tanglinna is right.  I was very slow.  I will be lucky if I ever get my warrior's braids."  He sighed morosely, fingering the long, single braid that hung over his right shoulder.

            Legolas smiled at his friend as he stuffed the arrows into Brethil's quiver.  "Of course you will get them," he said quietly.  "We all will.  We will stand there in front of everyone, looking so brave and grown-up—like warriors!—and our fathers will braid our hair, and we will be given our real weapons."  The prince smiled longingly, thinking of what his real arrows would look and feel like.  "They'll all be so proud.  It will be a wonderful day.  And do you know what the best thing about that day will be?"

            When Brethil shook his head, Legolas grinned and draped a hand over his friend's shoulders.  "We'll all become warriors together, on the same day, at the same time.  Brothers forever."

            Brethil smiled widely, his eyes sparkling.  He had never had a brother before, and the thought that his friends were to become his brothers for forever was tremendously exciting.  "I guess I had better practice some more, then, so I can be your brother forever, too," he said.  "I would like to be able to shoot a squirrel.  They are very fast.  I hope your Ada really will take us all squirrel-hunting, like he said."  Suddenly, his face brightened.  "We have caught fifteen of them now, haven't we?  That was not so easy, either, and we managed to do it.  So maybe I will be able to shoot one."  Just as quickly, his expression fell.  "But I would hate to shoot any of our little squirrels.  They look so cute with their bushy tails curling and flicking.  Their eyes are so bright and black, aren't they?  It really is a shame that they have not learned to do their tricks yet."

            Legolas grinned at his friend's enthusiasm.  "They just need more practice.  Like us."  His gaze fell on Tanglinna once more.  _It really isn't all his fault I couldn't go on the hunt today, Legolas thought to himself grudgingly, __but if he hadn't made that rule about the **five arrows, I probably could have done it!  The thought stung at the prince's pride, and he wished he could somehow get back at the Master Archer for making the test so hard…**_

            Suddenly, a supremely naughty idea came to Legolas' head.  His grin widened, and his eyes glimmered mischievously.  Brethil, who was watching his friend's expression, made a face.  "Legolas, what are you thinking?"

            "Master Archer Tanglinna wasn't very fair to me earlier, was he?" Legolas muttered, mostly to himself.  The grin did not go away; if anything, it only widened, as his plot was hatched out in his mind.

            Brethil's expression sank.  "You're going to get us into trouble, aren't you?" he asked resignedly.

            Legolas did not seem to hear.  "Come on," he said excitedly.  "Let's go get Tavor.  I have an idea."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

_Later that evening…_

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Thranduil inhaled deeply, savoring the crisp tang of the autumn air.  The scent was one of aging leaves ready to fall to the earth, and of sleepy trees ready for their winter's rest.  The Elvenking smiled up at the thinning canopy stretched above him and his small hunting party.  Through the fluttering, vibrantly colored leaves he could see that the cloudless blue sky was fading to lavender with the Sun's descent in the west.  The massive oaks thrummed their greetings as Thranduil rode in their midst, rustling their boughs and causing the shafts of reddening sunlight to dance across the leaf-littered forest floor.  

            The dark-haired warrior riding to Thranduil's right hummed a smattering of pleasant notes, then raised his fair voice in song: _"Lino nin muinderi yavaso lintimë túliel, an Yavanno aglar nutul tenn'hiniel!"  _

            Thranduil's smile widened; the words were part of the refrain from a very old, much-beloved hymn to the Giver of Fruits.  _Sing, my brothers, of autumn swiftly approaching, for Yavanna's glory descends unto her children!  "Most appropriate, Curulin," the king remarked, glancing over at his Master Huntsman.  "Certainly an improvement from the last time you accompanied me on the hunt.  I still do not understand what inspired you to begin singing that ridiculous barrel song."_

            Curulin's warrior braids danced around his face as he ruefully shook his head.  "I had heard a troop of Elflings singing it that morning, _aranhîr nin_.  It became lodged in my thoughts, as is the tendency of all such nonsense."

            "Will not speaking of it accomplish the same?" another of the hunters asked, chuckling from behind Thranduil and Curulin.

            "Nay, Marthul," another answered from further back in the party, "he must hear its tune."  On the heels of those words came the very melody they were discussing, floating up to assault the ears of the two at the head of the company.

            "Síralaith!" Curulin muttered darkly, his brows furrowing as he tried to prevent the song from infiltrating his thinking again.  "_Aranhîr, permission to eliminate the youngling's ability to hum?"_

            Thranduil stifled his laughter and twisted around to direct a cool glare toward the humming Elf near the rear of the party.  The humming cut off immediately, and Síralaith had the grace to look abashed.  "Let us not torment the Master Huntsman," Thranduil told them all, giving the entire party a pointed look.  "Surely you have all had such songs trapped in your minds at one time or another; for instance, I understand the bow-making song is quite memorable."

            A chorus of groans met the statement, and Thranduil turned back to face the pathway ahead, satisfied.  Curulin's appreciative smile was somewhat strained; the bow-making song had apparently found a place in his head as a result of the king's comment.  _Just so long as he does not begin singing it, Thranduil thought with a sidelong glance at his Master Huntsman.  Curulin's voice was lovely, true, but he had a penchant for singing whatever songs came into his head, and he had been known to grace those around him with the most absurd tunes imaginable._

            The hunting party continued along the path, speaking and laughing amongst themselves.  They were twenty in number, together with their king; all were mounted on proud horses free of saddles and bridles, for Elven beasts needed no such restraints.  The hunters were clad in green and brown riding leathers, including Thranduil, though the king's outer tunic was interwoven with crimson and gold embroidery as befit his station.  The cool weather did not overly affect them, but each wore a dark green cloak clasped at his throat.  Their quivers bristled with arrows, and their bows were tucked securely to their backs, ever in readiness for a swift shot.  All bore Elven-made swords at their sides; these were not to be used in the hunting, however, but were merely a precaution that no warrior of the Woodland Realm dared lack.  A few among the party also carried long spears.

            Thranduil listened to his companions trade jests and stories, smiling at some of the more amusing ones.  Some of the tales were older than their tellers, dating back to the days of the king's own long-past youth.  Still, he enjoyed the younglings' good humor.  He had chosen his hunting party carefully, including some of the best hunters, some of the best trackers, and so on.  Bronadui, Brethil's father, was typically quiet, but when he did choose to speak, it was with bright humor that never failed to bring a smile to Thranduil's face.  The youngest members of the company, Síralaith and Nevenneth, had but recently entered their majority; they had not quite cast their youthful mischief aside, but Tanglinna had assured Thranduil that the two had perfected their aim and would be an asset in the pursuit of a fleet-footed deer.

            _Too, they bring out interesting reactions in my older companions, Thranduil admitted to himself.  He gave his Master Huntsman an amused glance.  __Such as Curulin.  The Elven warrior had been hunting for the king's table for nigh on a millennia, and was regarded as one of the most skilled bowmen in the Greenwood.  He did have quite a wicked sense of humor, but it was rarely glimpsed by the young, for Curulin had no children and was not entirely comfortable around Elflings—no matter their actual age.  Thranduil rather enjoyed the discomfort Síralaith and his ilk caused Curulin; it deterred the Master Huntsman from wholly becoming "a grumpy old Elf," as Legolas had described him on one occasion._

            As always, thoughts of his youngest son sent a deep thrill racing through the Elvenking's heart.  His smile brightened considerably, taking on the rarest sparkle of joy.  _My little bird,_ he thought affectionately.  Little Greenleaf was every bit his mother's image, from his sweetly rounded features to his inquisitively shimmering eyes.  _And oh, when the little bird is unhappy,_ Thranduil mused, recalling the morning's archery incident, _that may be an echo of my frown, but I see pure Nandorin fire in those eyes.  Astalaewen, my beloved, you would be most pleased!_

            A hint of sadness crept into the king's smile.  Nearly two years had passed since the untimely death of his cherished queen.  Astalaewen Luiniglin, the Greenwood's blue-eyed Lady, had ridden from the gates with a hunting party—much like the one Thranduil found himself in at the moment.  But she and her companions had been set upon by a large contingent of the filthy creatures that had begun to roam anew the areas between Erebor and the Iron Hills, and even the outraged cries of the forest itself did not bring aid swiftly enough.  Two days later, Thranduil had found his lady love's motionless body, her life snuffed out by her own hand in her refusal to submit to capture.

_My brave blue-eyed falcon,_ the king remembered sorrowfully.  _Did you look on as I and your kin ran your attackers to the ground and slew them all in plain sight of their foul tunnels?  Did your spirit rejoice to see the black blood that stained the earth on your behalf?_

            The only reply was a rush of wind in the trees, a gust of cool air that carried a host of brightly colored leaves from their tenuous moorings and whisked them about in an intricate, riotous dance, before finally allowing them to settle to the earth to join their fellows.  Thranduil watched the whirling leaves, lost to his thoughts.  A line of small leaves tinted deep indigo coiled its way to the ground, caught in one of the breeze's eddies.  The dark hue of the fluttering foliage brought a myriad of memories to the king's mind.   _Astalaewen's hair…thick, warm, the deep hue of a gardener's prized soil, and twice as rich…_ Greenwood's fair Lady had possessed the lean, fearsome beauty of her Nandorin forbears, and the unusual blue tint in her eyes had earned her the moniker _Luiniglin, Blue-eyed Gleam.  Fleet of foot and mind, with lethal aim and deadlier wit, Astalaewen had perfectly complimented her imposing royal husband._

_But she was never so beautiful—or formidable—as when she was caught in the throes of childbirth, _Thranduil mused, much as he had during the births of each of his children.  The Elvenking's bright eyes slipped shut as he recalled his fiery falcon's tired laughter upon seeing the squirming infant she had but newly delivered into the world—their last, a son, who would be named for the summer's greenery that peeked through the window of the birthing room.  _"Ah, my golden eagle, is it not enough that you hold the headship of the Greenwood?  Must you also claim the heads of my children?  As though two golden-haired babes out of three did not a fair allotment make!"  Thranduil nearly laughed aloud at the memory; for out of their four children, only one—Mithgilhíri, the secondborn, a daughter—had been gifted with her mother's dark locks.  The others had inherited their father's deep gold, a fact that had at once pleased Thranduil and entertainingly frustrated Astalaewen._

A low voice at his side brought the king out of his memories.  _"Nin aranhîr?" Curulin asked, a faint note of concern in his tone.  "Are you well?"_

            Thranduil opened his eyes, quickly reorienting himself.  He realized that he had been alternating between a smile and a grimace for the past few moments.  "Yes, Curulin.  Memory lingers potently in the Greenwood, that is all," he assured the Master Huntsman.

            Curulin nodded slightly, and only a dark flash in his eyes betrayed his sympathy for his liege's loss.  The Silvan Elves of the Woodland Realm had dearly loved their queen, likely in an even greater measure than they honored their king.  Astalaewen's loss had struck the Master Huntsman to the heart, as it had every other Elf in the Greenwood; but none had suffered as had Thranduil.  The king had walked as though in a daze for weeks afterward, hardly eating, unable to sleep, slowly wasting beneath the weight of sorrow.  The fear had lingered long among those in the Elvenking's service that he would succumb to his grief and follow his queen into the Halls of Mandos.  Indeed, most believed that Thranduil had survived solely for the sake of his four children, whom he loved even more fiercely and passionately than he had before his queen's death, if that was possible.

            Of a sudden, all thoughts of his family were driven from Thranduil's mind.  The trees had begun to whisper of danger swiftly approaching.  The Elvenking stiffened and halted his steed, flinging up a hand to indicate that the rest of the party should do likewise.  All chatter immediately ceased, and the hunters glanced about warily, wondering what could rouse such a reaction in the middle of what seemed a calm forest on a bright autumn day.

            _"Aran brannon?" Curulin murmured beneath his breath, all merriment suddenly forgotten._

            Thranduil replied in a like low tone, all the while stabbing the nearby stands of trees and other foliage with a sharpened gaze.  "The trees have begun to speak of imminent threat, Curulin.  They warn me that peril draws nigh."

            The Master Huntsman's hand tightened on his sword's hilt.  He, too, now discerned the woodland's warning, but the Greenwood had always sung most clearly to those of the House of Oropher.  "From where, _aranhîr?" he asked softly._

            Thranduil glanced up at the boughs quivering above them all.  His steely eyes narrowed at the leaves' continued mutterings.  "From all around.  The threat hems us in."

            Curulin drew his blade, motioning for the others in the party to do the same.  He briefly gestured to indicate what Thranduil had learned from the forest, and was pleased to see that any expressions of dismay were quickly overlaid with determination.  They would see to it that their _aran was kept whole.  Even young Síralaith and Nevenneth nodded grimly, their dark eyes snapping with resolve.  _

            "_Aranhîr," Curulin murmured, "we should attempt to reach the clearing ahead, where we can better defend ourselves.  We are too enclosed here, unable to swiftly come to each other's aid."_

            "Agreed," Thranduil returned, sliding his own blade from its sheathe.  The hilt fit into his grip with the welcome familiarity of an old friend's embrace, and with a soft click of his tongue, he spurred his stallion to a rapid canter.  Curulin's advice was sound, for an encircling enemy was best met in an open area where the defenders could more easily guard each other.  _Alas that there are no rock faces to be found close at hand, _Thranduil mused.  If they had a solid wall to their backs, the hunting party could concentrate on fending frontal assaults only; as it was, however, they would be forced to repel attacks from all sides.  It was a potentially deadly situation, one that would have to be dealt with as prudently as possible.

            The Elven steeds glided over the forest floor with grace and speed borne of ages of sensible breeding.  Thranduil's own stallion was called Hrîwith the Wintry, a mighty creature of dappled gray coat and pale tresses.  The hunters' blades and spearheads flickered crimson in the waning sunlight filtering down through the Greenwood's waving boughs.  The Elvenking's gaze tightened imperceptibly as he continued to listen to the trees' troubled murmurs; the slender saplings, in particular, were uneasy.  The clearing Curulin spoke of was not far, but every passing moment brought the unknown threat nearer.

            At length the party swept from the path and into the clear, checking their steeds' swift paces as they reached the center of the grassy arena.  Thranduil quickly turned Hrîwith about, commanding the stallion to be still for a moment as the rest of the company arranged themselves in a ring, facing outwards so as to meet the foe on all sides.  Curulin was at Thranduil's left, and Amarthiach, another seasoned warrior, guarded the king's right.  Thranduil narrowed his eyes and cocked his head slightly.  "The foe is nearly upon us," he hissed to the others.  In truth, the mysterious enemies were so close that the Elvenking could hear their approach; he no longer needed the forest's assurances that peril was close at hand, for his sharp ears confirmed that very fact.

            Amarthiach bared his teeth in a most Silvan expression of disgust.  "They are mounted, _aran brannon nin," he murmured.  "And they are many."_

            Thranduil knew as much from his own acuity, but he was never one to be deterred by sheer numbers.  "Orcs do not normally ride," he remarked, almost casually, scanning the treeline for the first glimpse of their pursuers.

            "Nay, they do not," Curulin agreed.  "Men, perhaps?"

            Amarthiach gave a snort of grim laughter.  "Men with a severe wish for premature deaths, aye."

            "If there are archers among them, victory may not be so simply attained," Thranduil said, reaching behind and retrieving his longbow from its snug resting place at his back.  His rune-scribed blade he slid back into its scabbard, ready to be drawn again in an instant if needed.  "We shall be firstly occupied with deflecting their shafts."

            "The archers will be our first objectives, _aranhîr,_" Curulin said, taking his own bow in hand and sheathing his blade. 

Thranduil quirked one dark brow.  "Any objectives will do, Curulin, so long as the objectives are struck well."

            "'Between the eyes or down the gullet,' as Master Tanglinna once said," young Síralaith offered from the opposite side of the hunters' defensive ring. 

            A smile ghosted across the king's lips.  "Just so," he murmured, drawing one of his speckle-fletched arrows from the quiver slung across his back.  The shaft was smooth and straight, the tip fire-hardened to a lethal point.  The sounds of the approaching enemy were drawing nearer.  They would soon enter the Elves' keen field of vision.  _Woe to them, Thranduil thought humorlessly, nocking the arrow to his taut bowstring and preparing to draw it back.  He had a brief flash of memory, and stifled a chuckle at the image of his youngest son flinging the last arrow into the air.  Little Greenleaf's disappointment had been palpable, but the thought of any Elf attempting to defend himself by throwing the arrows like darts was nearly enough to double Thranduil over with laughter.  __What a story I shall have to tell my little ones when I return, the king thought grimly, suddenly fervently glad that Legolas was not with him.    _

            "They come, _aranhîr_," Curulin stated calmly, drawing back on his bowstring, preparing to release a deadly shaft into whatever came forth to attack.  The air was thick and charged with anticipation, as though the forest itself was holding its breath.

            The assault came swiftly, with mounted figures exploding from the line of trees like a horde of crows bursting from within the branches of a shaken tree.  The enemies were swathed from head to foot in filthy robes and head wraps—_Easterlings,_ Thranduil realized in disgust.  In one fluid movement, he drew back on his bowstring and released the arrow into the turbulent mass of attackers.  The feathered shaft flew forth with speed and skill, to embed itself in the breast of a charging Easterling.  The man howled in pain and fell back, his steed rearing in panic.  The king did not pause for an instant, but instead set to whipping the speckled arrows from his quiver and sending them spearing into those Easterlings nearest him.

            A veritable swarm of Elven arrows sang through the air, cutting down enemies as they drew near.  Thranduil heard a great commotion to his rear as the Elves on the opposite side of the defensive ring found themselves beset by mounted assailants.  The party was dangerously surrounded.  Twenty or so men already lay dead, their horses milling about in confusion and terror, but more appeared to take their slain fellows' places.  Many of the Easterlings wielded makeshift shields of wood, somewhat blocking their bodies from the deadly shafts, and so the defense was not as effective as it might have been otherwise.  The Elves had taken no losses as yet, but Thranduil was well aware that it was only a matter of time before an enemy blade found its mark in the confusion.  The king felled a pair of Easterlings to his right and briefly thanked Elbereth that the men did not have archers among their number; dodging enemy arrows would have made it nearly impossible to fend the massive hand-to-hand attack.

            Suddenly, a rush of wings overhead disturbed the king's concentration.  Thranduil instinctively ducked as a flock of birds swooped down low, nearly striking the Elves' heads in passing.  The king straightened up and directed a swift glance at the sky.  A drove of thirty hunting hawks, brown-feathered with pale underbellies, wheeled about and plunged down toward the hunting party once more.  Each bore a small sack of some kind in its talons—_no,_ Thranduil realized, peering up at them,_ the sacks are tied to their legs._  Inexplicable showers of yellow dust streamed from the small pouches and floated down to settle on the Elves and their mounts.  The king shook his head to dislodge the particles from his hair, glancing about to re-orient himself.  "'Tis merely a diversion!" he called out to his party, and breathed a silent prayer that none had suffered injury as a result of the distraction.

            A chorus of sneezing met the king's call, and he frowned, uncertain what to make of the unusual sound.  Elves rarely had cause to sneeze, and certainly not in the midst of a life-or-death conflict.  Thranduil dared not look back to see how the others were faring, however, because the Easterlings had gathered themselves for another vicious assault.  Again, the longbows sang their deadly tune, and a myriad of feathered shafts hammered outwards to knock Easterlings from their mounts.  For some reason, more of the arrows missed their marks than met them, and most of the men who fell were only wounded.  Thranduil was too distracted to take proper notice of the lapse.  He was occupied with fending the brunt of the assault; it had become swiftly apparent that the enemies were singling him out for attack.  Thankfully, Curulin and Amarthiach remained at their liege's flanks to defend him against the influx of assailants.

            The hawks dove again, forcing Thranduil to lean to one side in order to avoid their sharp talons and beaks.  The interruption, though brief, was a costly one, for it allowed three Easterlings to rush past the hail of arrows.  Murder was in their dark eyes as they hurtled toward the Elvenking.  Thranduil knew he could not draw three shafts swiftly enough to dispatch all of the attackers in time.  He slid his blade from its sheathe with a ringing sweep, keeping his bow in his left hand and wielding the sword in his right.

            Only one of the attackers, however, would reach his intended target.  Just as Thranduil braced himself to meet their assault, Curulin's steed leaped into the path of the leftmost Easterling, and the Master Huntsman's blade bit deeply into the foe, effectively ending his attempt on the king's life.  Simultaneously, Amarthiach buried his sword in the gut of one of the remaining two, and Thranduil swiftly finished the third.  He nodded once to his companions in gratitude for their intervention, then gave his horse's mane an errant sweep of a hand to brush away the perplexing yellow dust that had fallen from the hawks' pouches during their last dive.  

            The world seemed to waver before Thranduil's eyes, and he shook his head to ward off the alarming wave of dizziness that washed over him.  He accidentally inhaled some of the pale yellow powder puffing into the air from Hrîwith's mane; an acrid tang filled his nostrils, and a sneeze burst from his lungs before he could stop it.  _By all the Valar,_ Thranduil thought, coughing spastically while trying to bring an arrow to bear on the approaching enemies, _what is this?_  He heard a choked cry of alarm from the other side of the Elves' defensive ring, followed quickly by a gasp and the sound of a body striking the ground.  

            "_Aranhîr," Curulin gasped out, drawing near to Thranduil's side, "the enemy has broken the ring.  Síralaith and Aldamon are fallen, and the company reels nigh on collapse."  Another cry split the clang of battle, and the Master Huntsman's eyes winced.  "Marthul has fallen, my lord.  There is a foul trickery at work here!"_

            Thranduil drew in an unsteady breath.  His head felt lighter than the fletchings on his arrows, and he was having difficulty concentrating.  "We must retreat, then," he heard himself saying distantly. 

            Curulin's features darkened, not at the words, but at the unfocused look in his king's eyes.  "_Nin aran," he said forcefully, grabbing Thranduil's arm to capture his lord's attention.  _

            The Master Huntsman did not have a chance to speak further, however, because at that moment, the air above their heads was spliced by the beating of wings.  Thranduil's gaze jerked skyward just in time to receive a direct shower of the yellow powder.  It seared his eyes and nose, forcing a volley of reflexive coughs from his burning throat.  He blinked furiously, eyes streaming tears, and attempted to regain his bearings.  Unfortunately, the world seemed intent on swimming disorientedly around him, and the stinging in his eyes made it all but impossible to see much beyond vague shapes.  "Curulin," Thranduil gasped.  _It is a drug,_ he realized dizzily.  He heard Curulin's convulsive sneezing and choking nearby; the warrior must have taken a heavy dose of the powder, as well.

            The sound of battle was lessening around them.  A slurred cry of pain reached the Elvenking's ears, and he knew that his company was succumbing at last to the drug being rained down upon them by the hawks.  The Easterlings were closing in their targets.  Thranduil began to call out to Curulin and Amarthiach, but of a sudden, Hrîwith staggered sideways, nearly throwing the king from his back.  

            _The dust is affecting the horses as well, the king thought faintly.  "Nay, Hrîwith," he murmured, just as the stallion gave what seemed an apologetic whicker and folded up beneath Thranduil.  The Elvenking had just enough presence of mind left to throw himself from the steed's back and roll away, so as to avoid being crushed beneath Hrîwith's collapsing bulk.  _

Thranduil lay still, breathing in harsh gasps, unable to move or speak.  The yellow powder had done its work well, for the king could barely summon the strength to keep his eyes open.  A blurred, shadowy mass loomed over him, and a deep voice said something unintelligible.  The king attempted an irate glare, but all he could manage was a faint frown.  Then, the sky narrowed to a small point of light before his eyes, and the darkness moved in and claimed him.

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**Acknowledgements:**

Tanglinna, Brethil, Bronadui, Glaurhunant, Tavor, Glavrol, Mithereg, Talagan, and Legolas' "little Greenleaf" nickname belong to TreeHugger.  

Síralaith, Marthul, Amarthiach, Nevenneth, Astalaewen, Mithgilhíri, Aldamon, Hrîwith the Wintry, and the yellow powder drug belong to Katharine.

Curulin is sort of co-owned by Tree _and_ Kate. 

The bow-making song and Legolas' "little bird" nickname belong to JastaElf.

Everyone and everything else belongs to Master Tolkien.  

Drop a note on the review board and tell us what you think!  Remember, this is a co-authorship, and Tree and I will be responding individually to reviews in the next chapter… so feel free to direct specific comments, questions, compliments, and complaints (hope there aren't any ^_~) to either one of us!  Thanks!

Next chapter… the Tricksy Trio sets to work on Legolas' revenge plot, and the Very Bad Man™ makes his debut!  Everyone crack out the flame-throwers!  ^_~


	3. Mischief and Mayhem

**The Uncommon Tales__**

_Tales of the Jade King: Scroll One_

**_Chapter Two: Mischief and Mayhem___**

_One small note from Katharine before we kick off chapter two: I've gone back and changed the timeline of JK to fit with Master Tolkien's edict concerning Elven aging.  The introduction and first chapter have been amended accordingly.  This **Tale** is now set in TA 113…the readership may want to crack out the **Tale of Years in Appendix B of the LOTR Trilogy, because the world was a lot different then… thanks, and enjoy!**_

**The tale continues…**

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Brethil Bronaduion stared solemnly about the room he stood in.  It was a small chamber, the walls painted a soothing green that reminded the child of the shadows that lived beneath the ferns in the woods.  No fancy carpets or rugs graced the cool stone floor, only a thick braided rug of soft brown and russet cloth.  The room's furnishings were spare and simple, though beautifully crafted of rich wood, darkened with age and use.  The only ornament Brethil saw was a framed picture on the wall.  The Elfling moved across the room to peer up at it curiously.

            It was an ink rendering of a young Elf woman, obviously in a late stage of pregnancy.  She was smiling in such a gentle and loving fashion that Brethil was reminded of his own mother—except that Lady Glaurhunant's hair spilled in waves as pale as those of her son, whereas the woman in the picture possessed thick tresses as dark as a raven's wing, woven with hints and flashes of a rich blue. The long locks cascaded over the slim white shoulders, flowing down her back in a pleasing contrast with the flowing lavender dress she wore.  The silver and blue embroidery about the garment's neck matched the luminous tints of the woman's eyes.  One delicate arm reached down to encircle her swollen abdomen, while the other arm rested atop it.  The position of those graceful limbs spoke of such tender devotion and protectiveness that Brethil found himself swallowing a hard knot in his throat.

            The young Elf sighed as he continued to gaze up at the picture, wondering who she was, and why she was hanging on the wall of the stern Master Archer's bedroom.  His young eyes took in the skillfully drawn lines, and he marveled at how the face had been rendered so realistically.  Then, Brethil caught sight of three small smudges that marred the portrait.  It looked as though drops of water had splashed onto the ink while it was drying, smearing it slightly in blossoming circles. 

            The sounds of muffled laughter and hurried whispers drew his attention, and he turned to see Legolas and Tavor standing together beside the low bed, their eyes bright with mischief.  Brethil frowned, his gaze dropping guiltily to the cage he carried in his slim hands. Five of Greenwood's squirrels were huddled inside, their dark eyes sparkling like polished onyx pebbles.  They look up at him and scolded him softly for such treatment.  He quietly apologized to them, his gaze moving once more to his two much bolder friends.

            "Legolas?  Tavor?"

            The two were so absorbed in their own conversation and the mischief about to be unleashed that they didn't hear him.  Brethil could not have known that, though his friends appreciated his company, they had learned to ignore his voice without really thinking about it.  He took a few hesitant steps closer to them, and tried again, pitching his whisper to be heard over their excited murmurs.

            "Legolas?  Tavor?"

            The impassioned chattering died away, and the two turned to look at him.  Brethil frowned once more, not liking the looks on their faces.  "This is going to get us all into a lot of trouble," he began, knowing that they probably would not heed anything he said, but feeling that he had to say it anyway.  "I know you are angry with Master Tanglinna because he wouldn't let you go with your Ada on the hunting trip, Legolas, but—"

            "But nothing, Brethil," Tavor interrupted.  He patted the cage he had set down on the carven chest at the foot of the bed.  "Master Tanglinna wasn't very nice to you, either," he continued with a nod, reaching one long finger between the wooden bars.  One of the captive tree-leapers nipped the digit, and he let out a slight yelp, withdrawing the finger and shaking it in consternation.  "Brethil…he said you were slow.  He might not let you go with us on our hunt if he thinks you are _too slow, and not up to the rest of the class."_

             Brethil shot his older friend a look of stunned disbelief, the pale grey eyes filled with hurt.  "He wouldn't do that," he murmured, wondering if indeed the Master Archer _would do just that.  "I am not that slow…am I?"_

            Legolas scowled at Tavor.  This was _not the best way to approach the situation, he well knew.  Tavor shrugged apologetically, realizing the same thing, if somewhat belatedly.  "Of course you aren't, Brethil," the young prince said, moving to drape a reassuring arm over the younger Elf's shoulder.  _

"He is just an Old Sourpuss," Tavor snorted, then snickered at the not-so-nice nickname Legolas applied to the Master Archer.  

"And he needs some…fun," the young Elf finished with a sly grin that worried Brethil.

            Legolas smiled as his shining eyes met Tavor's.  He knew that the other Elfling felt highly affronted because of the scolding Tanglinna had given him earlier, and that Tavor was as eager as the prince for this prank to be played; but they could both see the reluctance in Brethil's expression about this "trick."  Too, there was a lurking worry that he might not be allowed to accompany them on the squirrel-hunting expedition.  Legolas thought fast, inwardly rolling his eyes at Tavor's blunder.  They couldn't afford to have Brethil running to the Master Archer now, not when they were so close to their revenge!

            "You see, Brethil," Greenwood's youngest prince said in a low, soothing voice, as he moved to examine their little captives, "this is going to be fun!  Can't you just imagine Master Tanglinna's face when he sees all our cute little squirrels sitting on his bed?"

            "Well," Brethil hedged, his gaze darting to the _cute little squirrels_ in the cages.  They were all fretting at the bars, and he knew they were not happy about being confined in those small coops.  "They _are very cute," he conceded at last._

            Tavor rolled his eyes and snorted slightly, which earned him a punch in the arm from Legolas.  "Master Tanglinna will really like this, uh, surprise," Thranduil's son assured.  "You know he likes squirrels.  He _has_ agreed to take us squirrel-hunting with my Ada, after all.  _All of us," he finished, glaring again at Tavor._

            Seeing the sense in Legolas' words, Brethil nodded and set his cage down on the chest next to Tavor's.  "You are certain that Master Tanglinna will think this is fun?" he asked, gently stroking one furry head through the bars.  

            _They never seem to nip at his fingers, _Tavor thought sourly as he glared down at his own caged squirrels.  The little animals' stares seemed full of amusement, as though they were just waiting for him to try to pet them again.  "Of course we're sure," he said impatiently, sticking his tongue out at the squirrels. They didn't have time to stand here and argue with Brethil; that could take all day. Tavor cast a nervous glance at the closed door, keenly aware that at any moment Tanglinna could come traipsing down the hall and into his room.  _That_ would be disastrous.  The Elfling shivered slightly; he could not begin to imagine what sort of trouble this would get them into if they got caught.  He suspected they would not be allowed on a hunting trip until they were as old as Tanglinna…and they all knew that he was as old as the Valar!    "He will be running to, er, thank us for our gift, I am sure."  Tavor grinned over at Legolas, who was stifling a giggle at this sentiment.  Tanglinna would be _running all right, but it was more likely that the Master Archer would be running _after _them, not __to them._

            Brethil nodded again, mostly mollified, though secretly he still harbored some doubts.  Yet, as Tavor and Legolas never ceased to remind him, they were older than he was, if only by a few years.  To their minds, that made Brethil the _laes,_ the baby of the group.  Therefore, Brethil assumed that he was right to listen to them, in deference to their greater experience and wisdom.  "Very well," he said.  "Do we let them out now?"

            Tavor grinned widely, his dark grey eyes sparkling.  "Yes, I suppose we had better let them out.  They don't look very happy.  They will be delighted to run about this nice room."  A new thought hit him then, and he continued, "You are doing them a favor, Brethil, both them and Master Tanglinna, really!  They can run about to get the exercise they need, _and_ they'll entertain the great Master Archer at the same time!"  Tavor nodded confidently, feeling very pleased with his logic.

            Legolas smiled over at his suddenly clever friend and winked as they moved to the doorway, pulling Brethil along with them, the cages clutched firmly in their hands once more.  This was going to be so much fun!  Until they got caught, which he knew they would…eventually.  _It will be fun until we get caught_, the princeling amended to himself.  _If __Ada__ is on the hunting trip for a few days, then Master Tanglinna will have time to get over his anger with us before he returns.  Well, most of his anger, anyway.  Maybe this time we will be lucky, and we won't get caught at all!  I am sure I will think of something to say if Master Tanglinna suspects us…_

            If anyone had been about a few minutes later, they would have seen the three young Elves slip away from Tanglinna's room, a wicked grin plastered on Tavor's slender face.  Legolas was giggling quietly, and they both had their arms linked through Brethil's, to prevent him from going anywhere near the Master Archer and spoiling the "surprise."  And inside the room, fifteen squirrels leaped and bounced, happy to be freed from the cages, which had been hastily stashed behind a hanging across the hallway.

            _No, Legolas concluded brightly as he began to sing.  Tavor joined in immediately, and Brethil a moment later.  _We won't get caught.  Not this time. Who would suspect that we managed to catch such fine squirrels, only to let them loose in Old Sourpuss' room? No one.  I can't wait to see the look on his face!__

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_Later that evening…_

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            Tanglinna made his way down the torch-lit corridor to his room, a small smile of amusement lingering on his lips as he pondered the joke Nondil the fletcher had related over the evening meal.  Jests involving tree stumps had become quite popular with the palace staff after word of Prince Legolas' unfortunate encounter with one had spread through Thranduil's halls.  Tanglinna's smile widened.  _Perhaps that will teach the young prince not to brag so elaborately, the Master Archer mused—then sighed and shook his head.  _Knowing Legolas, it likely will not teach him anything, save that he must be sure to choose a hideaway with less branches the next time he wishes to frighten his sister.__

As he always did, Tanglinna slowed his pace as he reached the last hallway that led to his quarters.  His silvery eyes moved over the wall to his left, taking in the woodland mural so skillfully painted there.  Towering trees stretched into the azure sky, their roots buried in cool green ferns and flowering plants and herbs.  Fierce birds of prey circled the cloudless climes: eagles, hawks, and falcons, the majestic royals of the sky.  Smaller birds nestled in the leafy treetops; sparrows, cardinals, blue jays, chickadees, and robins, winter and summer inhabitants of the Greenwood mingling together in one joyous gathering.  Bright-eyed deer peered cautiously from behind mossy trunks, or grazed in the knee-high underbrush.  Rabbits cavorted in the bushes, as foxes gamboled nearby, streaks of rust amidst the verdant grass.  And in the abundantly leaved boughs, squirrels romped with wild abandon—grey, red, and Greenwood's own black, their velvety little ears perked, black eyes shining with mischief.

            Tanglinna's gaze came to rest upon three of these ebon denizens of the wood.  The objects of his scrutiny were playing together in the branches of a great beech tree, frolicking as though they hadn't a care in the world.  The Master Archer shook his head and smiled once more.  Antrenartew, the mural's expert creator, had painted this trio of mischief-makers to honor their youngest prince and his two friends, whom Tanglinna had often likened to squirrels. The three had such divergent personalities, yet they complimented one another, making them the best of friends since earliest childhood.  Legolas was the natural leader—which wasn't surprising, considering his royal lineage, though Tanglinna knew there were minor clashes at times…especially between Legolas and Tavor.  

Thranduil had always found those minor disagreements highly amusing.  "It is in their blood," he would chuckle upon hearing of such conflicts, his silver eyes shining affectionately.  "They cannot help themselves."  Tanglinna snorted with amusement at the recollection; he well knew that Tavor's maternal grandmother, Laureahiril, still harbored resentment against Thranduil for her own husband's choice to follow Oropher to Greenwood in ages past.

"An exile," she called it, telling anyone foolish enough to listen to her bitter ranting.  "An exile from civilization and all its comforts, is what this is.  Forcing us to live in the untamed wilderness – what foolishness!"  Indeed, Laureahiril had clashed with Oropher, just as she now clashed on occasion with Thranduil.

Tanglinna closed his eyes briefly, the memories of various courteous arguments quirking his lips upwards.  _"Norn dolant lhingrilam!"_ Oropher had typically growled under his breath with grudging amusement.  _Hardheaded spider-tongue!_

            _"Tarlanc argalenas!" was Laureahiril's usual reply, laced with deference that was so faint as to be invisible at times.  _Obstinate leaf-king!__

            The Master Archer gave a low chuckle at this remembrance as he continued on to his room, wondering how the newest _tarlanc argalenas _was faring.  He truly hoped Thranduil was enjoying his outing; the king had been forced to endure much grief in recent years, and every opportunity for cheery diversion was a gift to be treasured, in Tanglinna's thinking.

His thoughts wandered to the younglings then.  Tanglinna hoped Legolas was recovering from his grand disappointment.  The Master Archer hadn't enjoyed denying the child the pleasure of accompanying his father on the hunt, but the rules that governed their lives were in place for a reason.  They had been time tried and tested, and ultimately proven necessary.  A young Elf's first hunt was an important occasion, one filled with excitement tempered with anxiety.  Today was most definitely not the day for the princeling's first hunt.  Tanglinna knew that his young charges were not yet ready to take on the challenges they would be expected to face, and that they would not be able to meet those trials with confidence and skill for some time to come.  On the day when Legolas and his age mates rode out on their first hunt, however, Tanglinna would be there with them, to share in their victory as they took their fledgling steps toward adulthood.

            _The young grow up so quickly,_ he thought with a sigh.  One day they were mere babes stumbling about on chubby, unsure legs as they pulled away from their parents' guiding hands…and in the next eyeblink, they were grown with babes of their own.

            "May they stay young as long as they may," the Master Archer murmured to himself as he opened the door to his room.

            The door folded back onto utter chaos.   Tanglinna stared in disbelief, blinking to assure himself that he was indeed standing on the threshold of his own room.

            Fifteen black squirrels were scattered about the room, chattering and scolding one another.  They were perched on the furniture, clambering about the carved dresser and headboard.  One was sitting upright on one of the chairs whose backrest had been carefully wrought by Bronadui himself.  The little animal was fretting over an acorn that wouldn't pry loose despite its best efforts to free it.  Three of the others were seated in the middle of the bed's soft coverlet, huddled together, prattling at one another.  They turned as one, however, to gaze up at the tall Master Archer as he stood transfixed in the doorway.

            Tanglinna growled low in his throat, shaking free of the shock that had momentarily overtaken him, and thought ironically of how he had just wished the young ones would stay young for as long as possible.  "Or not!" he muttered loudly, his voice carrying so fiercely in the small room that the tree-leapers started in fright.  The Master Archer moved purposefully into his usually neatly ordered room.  The candles placed on the dresser and the small table had been overturned, and a few of them bore telltale bite marks in the fragrant honey-colored wax.  Tanglinna's annoyance was such that he felt only the slightest twinges of gratitude that he did not leave the candles lit in the daytime. 

            The three bold squirrels sitting on his rumpled bed leapt nimbly to the carved chest at the bed's foot, blinking up at him, bushy tails twitching and curling.  He frowned at them, which caused them to jump to the floor and scurry out the door into the corridor, scolding him loudly as they ran.  The others, seeing their fellows fleeing, quickly followed suit.  The last one, a small creature with a frizzy tail, collided with Tanglinna's leg in its haste.  It clung to his boot for a moment, then shrieked its fear and annoyance before bounding away.

            The Master Archer shook his silvery head, still scowling fiercely as he moved to set the candles upright and smooth the bed covers.  A few precious books had dropped to the floor from the table.  He knelt to retrieve them, but sprang back upright when he heard a loud crash from the hall and a startled cry.  Laying the books on the table, Tanglinna moved swiftly into the corridor.

            A young Elf stood a few feet away, shaking his head in disbelief.  The tray he had been carrying graced the stone floor at his feet, and its former contents lay scattered about the hallway.  Tanglinna moved to pick up one of the silver goblet, and raised one brow as he surveyed the dent that marred its shining surface.

            "I am sorry, Master Tanglinna," the Elf apologized as he bent to retrieve the tray.  His fair face paled when he saw the damage the fall had caused several more of the goblets.  "Oh, _no_.  This is very bad," he murmured, holding one aloft, his grey eyes filled with worry.  "What am I going to tell Galion?"  He glanced over one shoulder, his brows quirking with annoyance.  "And how did all those squirrels get into the palace?"

            _How indeed?_ Tanglinna thought as he helped the youth replace the goblets on the gilded tray.

            "Where is Prince Legolas?"  the Master Archer asked calmly, gazing down the corridor in the direction that the squirrels had taken.

            "The prince?"  The young Elf frowned slightly, thinking.  "I believe he and Princess Lelemir were put to bed a few minutes past."  

            "I see," Tanglinna murmured as he placed the last goblet on the tray.  "When you see Galion, do tell him that I wish to speak to him about what happened here."

            The younger Elf swallowed nervously.  This was not good.  The dour Master Archer telling Galion what had transpired would only make his situation much worse.  "Of course, Master Tanglinna.  I will," he murmured, wondering what punishment he would receive for this mishap.  He only hoped it wouldn't be to tell the king in person of the incident.  

            Tanglinna glanced over at the youth, a smile touching his lips as he saw the other's discomfort and trepidation.  "Never fear, youngling," he said kindly, momentarily swallowing his irritation for the young Elf's sake.  "I will tell Galion that this was not your fault."

            Relief washed over the servant's face.  "Thank you, Master Tanglinna," he said brightly, smiling his gratitude.  He then bowed deeply and hurried back down the hallway in the direction of the kitchens, as if fearing that any delay might bring about a change in his fortune.

            The Master Archer watched him go, his face inscrutable.  "Well, _nin caun_," he said quietly.  "Look what you have done now.  I don't believe this is exactly what you had intended to happen."  He shook his head at the thought of all the havoc the squirrels were likely to wreak elsewhere in the palace, then turned and walked back into his room.  He brushed at his bed once more, glowering mightily at the squirrel-hair riddling the surface.  _Rest well tonight, little prince,_ he thought.  _You will need all of your strength tomorrow…_

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_Much later that night…_

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_The Elfling peered around the corner into the living area of his home, covering his mouth with one hand to stifle his giggles.  The hour was early, far earlier than his normal waking time.  He had crept from his bed as quietly as any youngling could manage, knowing that his Nana was already up and tending to various tasks in the household.  _

_The child practically thrummed with the mischievous glee of the very young; rousing early was something of a game he played with Nana.  Sometimes he dressed himself and pulled his own hair up into a disordered warrior's topknot, then came striding out of his room, declaring that he had been out hunting all night and had only just arrived back home.  Then, while Nana straightened her son's clothing and re-braided his unruly locks, he would relate his nightly adventures with elaborate detail, even going so far as to hint that he had seen Oromë and his great steed ranging through the forest. On other occasions, the child hid under his bed until his mother came to wake him, and upon finding his bed empty she would search all through the house, calling his name and worrying aloud that he had run off and gone to live with the Silvan Elves across the mountains.  Then, when she finally returned to her son's room, she would find the Elfling lying in his bed once more, attempting to feign sleep, muffling his giggles with his pillow._

_            His favorite trick, though, was the one he intended to play on this particular morning.  The Elfling watched Nana moving about the living area, her long night robe whispering against the thick woolen rugs on the stone floor.  Her golden hair was bound in intricate braids and pinned in a knot at the nape of her neck.  The child bit down on his small fist to keep his laughter in.  Nana was always so composed and calm—wouldn't she be surprised when he jumped out at her from the hallway!_

_            The youngling shrank back as his mother cast a glance at the hall he was lingering in.  He held his breath, keeping as still as possible, hoping to escape her notice.  He did not think Nana had seen him; and as the minutes wore on without response from the living area, his smile widened, for surely if she had noticed her son's presence, she would have called to him.  The Elfling peeked past the doorway once again and saw, to his impish delight, that his mother's back was turned to him._

_            Nearly bursting with excitement, the child gathered himself, then raced from his hiding place and sprang at his mother with an ear-splitting howl.  To his complete surprise, however, Nana whirled round and caught him in mid-bound, sweeping him up off the floor and cradling his squirming form in both arms._

_            "You are awake early today, **pen-tithen," she said, laughing musically and nuzzling her child's loosely braided hair, which fell in waves of the same shining gold as that which adorned her own head.**_

_            "Did I frighten you, Nana?" the Elfling piped, giggling merrily at his own cunning._

_            "Yes, **tithen pen-gorothon, you did indeed," Nana answered with a smile, pinning her wriggling son and tickling him mercilessly.  The home was filled with peals of laughter and breathless, pleading shrieks, as the youngling attempted in vain to escape his mother's grip.**_

_            A deep voice vibrating with amusement resonated from the entrance to the home.  "Ah, **thoron-neth nin**, it seems your prey has captured you, instead of the other way around!"_

_            The Elfling turned crinkled, mirth-blurred eyes on his father's tall, powerful form standing in the doorway.  __Ada__'s dark silver hair spilled over his broad shoulders as he laughed at the spectacle of his wife and son engaged in frenetic combat.  _

_"I frightened Nana**, **__Ada**_!_**__" the child chirped between giggles.  "She did not even see me coming!"_

_            Ada raised one eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest, a smile yet tugging at his lips.  "Is that so?  Elemmírë, **wana-melhíri**, how did our **pen-glamui** escape your notice?"_

_            "I walked quietly, __Ada**_!_**__" the Elfling announced, then added with a flourish, "Just like you showed me!"_

_            The elder Elf gave a hearty chuckle and came over to ruffle his son's disordered locks.  "Grandsire Camechuir would be proud, **pen-tithen," he murmured.**_

_            Nana hugged the child and planted a light kiss on his cheek.  "I am sure grandsire Elerrínion and grandmother Lórellin will be pleased to hear of your deed, as well," she said warmly.  "We are going to see them today, remember?"_

_            The Elfling flashed a sweet smile up at his mother.  "Perhaps I will frighten grandmother Lórellin as well," he suggested impishly.  "Shall I try it, __Ada**_?_**__"_

_            But __Ada__ made no reply.  The child craned his neck to see where his father had gone—_

_            —and to his immense confusion, __Ada__ had fallen to the floor in a tangle of long limbs and ash-hued hair.  Thick black arrows jutted dreadfully from the elder Elf's red-smirched chest, and the familiar strong face was frozen in an expression of shock and pain.  For some reason, the stone floor had become a quagmire of bloodstained mud.  Uncomprehending, and yet terribly, painfully aware of the finality of what he saw, the child cried a soundless cry of loss and fear…_

_            And Thranduil was falling from his mother's arms, the secure embrace dissolving into the mist of sweet memory…_

             A sudden jolt shook Thranduil from the blank haze of oblivion.  The dream faded as quickly as it had come, leaving no more than a deep sense of sadness in its wake.  The king opened his eyes and blinked groggily, then gave a faint frown at the impenetrable darkness.  A rough cloth of some sort was pressed against his face, blocking out light and restricting his breathing.  An annoyed remark rose to his lips, but was just as quickly swallowed as memory flooded back.  _The hunting party.  The attack.  The drug…_

            Thranduil remained still and silent, feigning unconsciousness as he let the activity around him filter through his senses.  The continually shifting warmth and muscular tension beneath him could only be a horse, over whose neck the king was slumped like a broken doll.  A subtle attempt at movement revealed that his wrists were bound, and the cord had been passed beneath the horse's neck so that Thranduil was fairly securely fastened atop the beast.  Sharp pains blossomed all over the king's body, bringing a grimace to his face—_throwing one's self down from a collapsing horse has its price,_ he mused uncomfortably.  Thoughts of Hrîwith gave rise to a swell of concern for the others in the hunting party.  Thranduil wondered if all were now captives, or if some had lost their lives to the Easterlings' brutal assault.

            Rough voices muttered nearby.  Thranduil scowled behind the cloth, for the language was instantly recognizable as that of the men of Rhûn.  _Taken captive by a band of mortals, he seethed inwardly.  He could almost hear his father's response.  __Surely you do not speak of **my** son, Oropher's voice objected.  **_My_**__ son would never allow himself to be taken alive by a ragtag lot of **Fírimar!**_

            Thranduil quelled the ire burning in his gut, knowing that he needed to think clearly if he was going to escape his predicament.  He was bound and blinded—by a cloth sack over his head, he had determined—and awkwardly situated on an unfamiliar horse.  He did not know how many captors surrounded him; from the sound of their voices and the rapid clippety-clipping of their horses' hooves, they severely outnumbered him.  Also, he did not know who among his hunting party might have been taken as well, or whether those captives were awake and able to make good their escape as well.

            The king wanted to growl with frustration.  He was fairly certain he could convince the horse that bore him to break away from its masters and carry him to safety, but that would likely doom any other captives to an unpleasant fate, and Thranduil refused to abandon any of his warriors to the tender mercies of the Easterlings.  _Which leaves me right where I am, Thranduil thought with a grimace.  His position atop the steed was becoming more painful by the minute, especially since the various bruises he had acquired were aggravated by the continuous shifting movement.  He supposed, however, that he was fortunate to have escaped with mere bruises—his injuries could have been much worse._

            In truth, Thranduil was more irritated than pained.  His pride chafed sorely under the captivity.  Elves in general did not handle imprisonment well, and those of the House of Oropher were not especially known for patience.  Too, the thought that some of his companions might have been killed by the Easterlings' attack stirred the anger smoldering in his chest.  _Which of them did not survive? the king wondered, clenching his teeth to contain his outrage.  The names and faces of the nineteen warriors who had accompanied him swept through his memory like whispers on the wind, each bringing a fresh wave of dread as he considered the possibility that they might have perished.  __Curulin…Amarthiach…Síralaith…Bronadui…_

            A gruff voice to his right snagged Thranduil's attention—the speaker was using the Westron tongue in place of his native language.  "Are you awake, Elf king?" the voice demanded, his words broken by a thick accent and hesitancy with the unfamiliar words.

            Thranduil made no reply.  He bit back a hiss of pain as the Easterling's hand clamped round his shoulder and gave it a rough shake; the pressure and movement sent hot, deeply embedded twinges racing through his arm, signifying strained, bruised muscles.  The king's temper flared at the belligerent treatment.  _Insolent creatures! he fumed silently._

            The Easterling to the right removed his hand and gave a rough chuckle.  "Maybe he will wake up if we cut off a pretty ear," he said, inspiring a round of laughter from his fellows nearby.

            A second voice, this one coming from the left side, cut into the mirth, instantly stilling the laughter.  "He is likely already awake, and listening to every word you speak," the speaker said archly.  Thranduil was mildly intrigued by the sharp tone of that voice; it was cold and precise, and heavily laced with authority.  Their leader, perhaps?  The second speaker continued, "He will not give himself away unless it is to his benefit to do so.  Do not grow lax on account of this pretense, or you will be held responsible to the Master for the loss of his prize.  Is that understood?"

            A fearful murmur ran through the gathered Easterlings.  Thranduil mulled over what had been said.  He did not like the astuteness of the second speaker; he had detected a disquieting intellect in the voice, as well as a fair amount of tightly-reined hatred.  If that was indeed the leader, Thranduil knew he would have to make good his escape through one of the underlings' blunders.  _When I have determined that I can do so without abandoning any of my people, that is,_ he amended, frustration welling up once more.

            A whisper of air to his left alerted Thranduil that someone had drawn near.  The second speaker's voice was but a murmur now, but it speared through the cloth sack and burrowed with chilling purpose into the king's awareness.  "You would do well to keep your peace, Elf king," the speaker, the leader, hissed softly.  "For if you do not, the earth will drink the lifeblood of your companions, and that most deeply."

            Thranduil did not give any indication that he had heard, but he got the distinct impression that the Easterling leader knew already.  It was a notion that both irritated and disturbed him.  He was glad to hear that at least some of his party had survived, but for how long?  It was fairly obvious that the attack had been staged for the sole purpose of kidnapping Greenwood's king.  _How long can I keep the others alive,_ Thranduil wondered darkly, _when they are no longer needed to keep me in check?_

            The answer to that was far too disturbing to contemplate…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**Acknowledgements:**

Bronadui, Lady Glaurhunant, Nondil the fletcher, Antrenartew, Laureahiril, the young Elf in the hallway, et al belong to TreeHugger.

Elemmírë, Camechuir, Elerrínion, Lórellin, et al belong to Katharine.

The Very Bad Man™, who as yet is only a cold voice at Thranduil's left side, belongs to both Kate and Tree.  We don't really like him, but he doesn't seem to care a whole lot.  

As always, everyone and everything else belongs to Master Tolkien.  

**Translations:**

_Nin caun = Sindarin, "my prince"_

_Pen-tithen = Sindarin, "little one"_

_Tithen pen-gorothon = Sindarin, "little horrifying one"_

_Thoron-neth nin = Sindarin, "my eaglet"_

_Wana-melhíri = Sindarin, "fair lady love"_

_Pen-glamui = Sindarin, "noisy one"_

_Fírimar = Elvish for "mortals"_

**Replies to reviews:**

_Well, folks, we're going to reply to every reviewer, as promised…but we're going to do it Tree 'n Kate style!  ^_^_  You may want to read the next section in its entirety; it promises to be…entertaining!__

One room, somewhere in the Realm of Impossibility.  One computer, tuned in to Fanfiction.net.  Three favorite characters, two tall 'n tasty, one short 'n spritely.

Tanglinna surveyed the review board displayed on the computer screen with a raised eyebrow.  "Well, well, _aranhîr, look how popular you have become of late."_

Thranduil shook his head and sighed.  "What did you expect?  It is just a pity that I have to be—" he glanced down at the small Elf between himself and Tanglinna, and lowered his voice to a whisper, "—kidnapped and tortured to get any attention."

Oblivious to his father's remark, little Legolas jumped up and down and waved at the reviewers on the screen, grinning cheerfully.  Tanglinna harrumphed in response to the youngling's antics, and offered a caustic, "Yes, _nin caun, we all know who usually gets the attention, don't we?" _

Legolas gave a sweet little smile.  "'s not _my fault I'm cute."_

Thranduil grinned and ruffled his son's blond head.  "Certainly not, little Greenleaf.  It is in your blood."

"Only on his mother's side," Tanglinna objected acerbically.

            The Elvenking shot his Master Archer an annoyed glance.  "Do you intend to help little Greenleaf and I answer our devotees, or shall I tell Katharine and TreeHugger to send you back to Greenwood?"

            Tanglinna snorted and folded his arms across his chest.  "They wouldn't dare," he said archly.

            Before Thranduil could formulate a sardonic reply, Legolas tugged on his father's verdant cloak excitedly.  "Ada!  Look at what **The Evil Old Woman said!  She says we are 'too cool for words'!"  The Elfling looked up at Thranduil expectantly.  "What does that mean?"**

            "It means, _meliôn nin, that she adores us too much to express in mere words," the king explained.  "'Tis a high honor, indeed."_

            "**JastaElf reviewed twice, if somewhat out of order," Tanglinna remarked, leaning in and smirking at the screen.  "She said I was 'fantastic as always.'  How flattering."**

            "Hmm…and she is 'not at ALL happy with what has been DONE to' me," Thranduil added.  "That is very odd.  She seems to relish such lovely matters as torment and anguish.  But you see, she calls me _wonderful_."  The king smirked back at his Master Archer.  "They do adore me, you know."

            Legolas stood on his tiptoes and blew a kiss at the screen, grinning.  "I like the bow-making song, Jasta!" he piped.

            Thranduil studied the review board, the smile lingering on his lips.  "Two more from **PuterPatty," he remarked.  "Further praise for both of us, Tanglinna.  You are apparently 'marvelous,' and I am evidently myself—a 'noble king and loving father.'"  He squeezed Legolas' slim shoulder affectionately.  "That much is true."**

            "Patty also appreciated the descriptions used," Tanglinna mused aloud, reading further.  "Hmph.  Legolas, the readers seem to be enjoying your mischief."

            The princeling grinned brightly.  "Really?"  He caught the Master Archer's disapproving frown then, and the smile disappeared.  "Um, that's, uh, terrible.  How naughty of them," he amended hastily.

            Thranduil hid a grin and looked back to the computer screen.  "Well, Tanglinna, **Tamsin**** FlameArrow is certainly concerned for my well-being.  But who in the name of Manwë on high devised the nickname 'Thrandy'?  It is highly annoying!"**

            Tanglinna chuckled.  "TreeHugger refers to us as 'Thran and Tan.'  I find that amusing."

            "Then you may also find this amusing," Thranduil answered.  "**None** was anxious to find out how Legolas and his friends were going to have their revenge on 'poor, innocent Tanglinna.'"

            "Innocent?"  Legolas rolled his eyes.  "Right, and I'm a great spider's nephew."

            "I am not certain your uncles would find that humorous, _nin caun," Tanglinna said with a raised eyebrow.  "It seems that both None and **Princess ArWen of sMirkwood are both fretful for your sake, **__aranhîr.  ArWen also wants to know where Katharine and TreeHugger learned Elvish."_

            Thranduil rested one arm atop the computer screen.  "When I visited Katharine to inform her that she was going to write this _Tale_ for me, she was sitting at her computer with a staggering quantity of books piled round her.  One of them was The Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth by one Ruth S. Noel, as I recall.  I believe she refers to that more than anything else."    

Tanglinna nodded, a slight grin tugging at his lips.  "She sounds exactly like TreeHugger; piles of books and papers everywhere in her 'corner.'  'Tis strange how that corner has grown of late—it now spills into the living room, as well.  She has a rather tattered copy of the Sindarin dictionary from Hisweloke, among other things.  Hmm…Ruth S. Noel is popular, it seems.  TreeHugger's copy is a rather ancient one from their world's 1980s."  He shook his head, muttering, "She must be nearly as old as I am."

            "Ada, **gemstone called you a 'nice guy,'" Legolas giggled.**

            "Hm, yes," Thranduil murmured, reading the remainder of the sentence through slitted eyes.  "Writers portray me as an 'unloving father,' do they?"  He cracked the knuckles of his left hand loudly, causing Legolas to jump and Tanglinna to quirk a brow in surprise.

            "_Aranhîr, that was rather uncouth," the Master Archer remarked._

            "It is a human gesture of warning, one I think most appropriate," Thranduil muttered.  "How I wish I were able to hunt down every last one of those maligning reprobates and teach them the error of their ways."

            Tanglinna gave a nod.  "I would join you, to be sure."

            Legolas, meanwhile, read the next review, and halfway through it he grimaced and stuck out his tongue.  "I think I agree with **Lily Frost.  'Not too much mush.'  Mush is gross, isn't it, Ada?"**

            Thranduil threw a sly glance at Tanglinna, then replied in all seriousness, "Why, little Greenleaf, your Ada has been known to be _quite_ mushy in the past."

            Legolas made a face.  "That isn't funny, Ada," he grumbled.

            "'Tis no jest, _nin caun_," Tanglinna said gravely.  "I clearly recall stumbling upon your father kissing your mother, more times than I can properly recount."  The Master Archer leaned down and whispered conspiratorially, "_Kissing on the mouth._"

            The princeling made a gagging sound.  "I did _not need to hear that, Master Tanglinna," he moaned, covering his eyes with both hands.  "That is so gross…"_

            "I am never going to marry him off," Thranduil sighed aloud.  He smiled and winked at Legolas' horrified expression, then turned his attention back to the review board.  "**Seaweed** evidently likes me, as well.  That brings the count to seven for me, three for you, Tanglinna," he added with a smug grin.

            "Four," Tanglinna replied acidly.  "Seaweed complimented me, as well."

            "And me!" Legolas added, peering out from behind his hands.  "That makes five for me!"

            Thranduil chuckled and tousled the Elfling's unruly hair.  "Yes, little Greenleaf, that is five for you.  And, my dear Master Archer, **Angaloth** adds another to my tally, raising it to eight."  He scanned the next review, then laughed outright.  "Nine!  **Laura** used TreeHugger's words: 'poor Thranduil'!"

            Tanglinna harrumphed.  "She also expressed extreme concern for the _elves_, _aranhîr.  Since both Legolas and I fall into that category, we shall each take another for our counts."_

            Thranduil's grin broadened.  "Certainly you may, but it will not avail you much."

            "Ada, a lot of people have asked about Brethil," Legolas pointed out.  "Why can't we let him come in and answer them for himself?"

            "Because, _nin caun, then we would be here for years incalculable, and the story would never be finished," Tanglinna answered._

            Legolas opened his mouth as if to disagree, then shut it and nodded.  "Yes, that is likely true," he admitted.  "Well, I shall have to tell him that so many people like him.  He has a count of four already."

            "He would like that, little Greenleaf, I am sure," Thranduil told the Elfling.  He gave Tanglinna a wicked grin.  "Oh, and Tanglinna, my tally is now ten.  **the evil witch queen** also called me 'poor Thranduil.'"

            The Master Archer ignored the king, peering at the second part of the review.  "Ah, but she also apparently wishes to see your princeling accomplish the impossible—rescue you using an aspect of bowmanship that he has not perfected yet."  Tanglinna shook his head.  "Preposterous."

            The princeling in question jumped up and down, tugging on his father's hand insistently.  "Can I, Ada?  Can I?  Please?" he asked excitedly, not knowing precisely what he was asking for, but willing to plead for it anyway.

            Thranduil smiled at his son's pleas.  "I am afraid I must agree with Tanglinna, little Greenleaf.  I would sooner let a spider chew off my feet than place you in such a dangerous situation."

            Legolas giggled at the visual, but managed a disappointed pout.  "I never get to do anything."

            "Your time will come, _nin caun_," Tanglinna murmured, almost to himself.  "It seems that **addicted** is upset by the authoresses' choice of Chapter One's stopping point."

            "Considering the implications of that pen name, I am not surprised," Thranduil remarked, scrolling to the next review.  "Ah, **hiro-tyre is quite the exuberant enthusiast!  I can hear Katharine and TreeHugger chuckling from here!"  His grin widened.  "Little Greenleaf, she said she 'absolutely LOVES' you and I.  What is the count now?"**

            "Eleven for you, Ada, and seven for me," the Elfling said cheerily.  "And five for Master Tanglinna."

            The Master Archer narrowed his eyes at the prince.  "Legolas, do not forget that I am quite capable of making your young life dreadfully tedious and dismal," he growled.

            Legolas shrank back against his father, his eyes wide.  "Ada, can he really do that?"

            Thranduil hugged the child to him, but shrugged evasively.  "Certainly he can, little Greenleaf.  I cannot guard you every waking moment for the rest of your childhood."

            The princeling pressed his lips together and glanced warily up at Tanglinna, who arched one sharp brow.  "I am sorry, Master Tanglinna," Legolas muttered.

            Thranduil stifled his laughter and gestured at the screen.  "Hiro-tyre requested a hug, Legolas.  Would you like to do that?"

            The Elfling brightened considerably.  "Oh, yes!  But how?"

            "Hug the screen," Thranduil suggested.  He lifted Legolas up so that the youngling could do just that, chuckling at his son's enthusiastic grip on the computer monitor.

            "Now you," Legolas insisted, slipping back down to the floor.

            Thranduil paused, surprised, but leaned in and briefly embraced the computer, trying not to feel overly foolish for doing so.  He heard Tanglinna's amused snort, and turned an expectant stare on the Master Archer.  "Well?" he said finally.

            Tanglinna returned the stare unblinkingly.  "Well, what?" he returned.

            "Aren't you going to give hiro-tyre a hug?" Legolas asked chirpily.

            The Master Archer's brows knitted.  "I am not going to hug that monitor," he said flatly.

            "Please?" Legolas asked, gazing up at the stern elder Elf with huge eyes.  "It would mean a lot to hiro-tyre."

            Tanglinna's scowl deepened.  "_Nin caun, nin aranhîr, I am _not_ going to _hug_ that computer screen!"_

            Thranduil shook his head and muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Old Sourpuss," but Tanglinna let it slide with only the briefest glare.  "Well, well, **Dragon-of-the-north makes twelve for me," the king continued aloud.  "I was granted three smiles in that review!"**

            "Yes, well, perhaps I shall simply have to demand an absurdly unpleasant tale for myself," Tanglinna remarked caustically.  "After all, it is obvious that suffering to a ridiculous degree garners much more attention than anything _normal_."

            "So I learned, after researching all of the stories written concerning little Greenleaf," Thranduil agreed, mildly sympathetic.  "Or at least, some bizarre facsimile of him."

            "**Earl Grey mentioned you, Master Tanglinna," Legolas offered.  "Brethil and me, too, and Ada.  Earl likes us all!"**

            "'A bit of a shock,' you say?" Tanglinna mused, reading through the review.  "Imagine my shock when Thranduil told me of this inadvisable misadventure he was going to have Katharine and TreeHugger concoct for him.  I presumed he had eaten strange mushrooms in the forest and had gone temporarily mad as a result."

            "Why do I think I'm missing something?" Legolas wondered aloud, looking back and forth between his father and the Master Archer.

            "You are not, little Greenleaf," Thranduil assured the Elfling.  "Ah, **Invader Iggle** has left a rather gruesome review.  How very…creative, indeed."

            Tanglinna growled low in his throat.  "Actually, I rather like it.  I may consider utilizing some of her suggestions in the future."

            Thranduil raised one dark brow at his Master Archer.  "You are quite disturbing at times, do you know that?" 

            The other Elf mimicked his king's expression.  "Yes."

            "Last review," Legolas piped up.  "From **Noone**.  She doesn't like Katharine and TreeHugger's stopping point, either."

            "A common complaint," Thranduil remarked.  "Perhaps we should tell the authoresses to halt posting until the entire story is finished."

            "That could take some time," Tanglinna replied.  "I believe there would be far more protests if they were to do such a thing."

            Legolas stood on tiptoe and peered at the screen.  "Oh, isn't that great?  Brethil is her favorite!  He has six now!"

            "Which brings the count to thirteen for me, six for Tanglinna, eight for little Greenleaf, and six for Brethil," Thranduil concluded.

            "A situation which will hopefully be remedied in the next few chapters," Tanglinna muttered.

            Thranduil gave a low chuckle.  "Speaking of which, we had better bring this to a close, so that Katharine and TreeHugger can continue their work on the actual tale.  Wave good-bye to all of the reviewers, little Greenleaf."

            Legolas gave the computer screen a brilliant smile and waved excitedly.  "Good-bye, everyone!" he chirped.

            "Fare you all well," Thranduil added.

            "And we shall see whose count ascends next time," Tanglinna said pointedly, glaring into the monitor.

            And the Realm of Impossibility faded out on Legolas' giggles, sending the three Elves back into the forest from whence they had come…

_            *grin*  Well, I hope everyone else enjoyed that as much as we did!  Huge thanks to everyone who reviewed, and to all the silent readers, too!  Tree and I might show up in one of these reply sessions in the future, but it will likely continue to be handled mainly by characters.  The characters may vary somewhat, though.  Ta-ta for now, we'll see everyone next chapter!  See the teaser below…_

Next chapter…the chaos continues!  Squirrel capers abound, the Trio faces an unamused Master Archer, and Thranduil is "properly" introduced to his captor, the Very Bad Man™ himself… *shudder*


	4. Reckoning and Resolve

**The Uncommon Tales__**

_Tales of the Jade King: Scroll One_

**_Chapter Three: Reckoning and Resolve___**

**_Disclaimer: __No squirrels or Elvenkings were harmed in the making of this chapter._**

**The tale continues…**

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Daybreak in Thranduil's halls was usually a quiet, serene affair.  The corridors echoed with only the gentlest hum of activity as the palace awoke.  Servants rose from their beds to begin their daily duties, even as the night watch retired; pleasant aromas wafted from the kitchens soon after the Sun's first light crept over the hills, for Galion and his staff knew that Thranduil woke with the sunrise, and they wanted to be certain that breakfast was prepared in good time for their king and his children.  In the upper levels of the rock-hewn palace, the curtains were drawn aside to admit light and fresh air, and all the doors were flung open so that the rest of the cavernous citadel would remain well-ventilated.

            One corner of the palace, however, was jarred from the fading night's peace by an ear-splitting screech.  The piercing shriek continued for several long moments without pause, was interrupted just long enough for an intake of breath, and then continued, possibly even more loudly than before.

            Merethen, one of the royal attendants, hurried from her room just as the second round of shrieks began.  She rushed down the hallway toward the source of the clamor, flinging her long night braid back over her shoulder as she went.  _It's coming from the children's wing, Merethen realized.  She thought she recognized the screeching voice, but she couldn't imagine what would elicit such a commotion.  She hurried round a corner—_

            —and was nearly knocked off her feet by a sprinting flurry of gold and pale green.  

            Merethen stepped back to regain her balance.  Her expression of surprise swiftly turned to one of concern as she caught sight of the wild-eyed, tear-streaked face framed by waves of tousled golden hair.  Lelemir, Thranduil's youngest daughter, stared up at Merethen with wide silver eyes, gasping for breath as though she had just run all the way from Rivendell.

            "Lelemir," the elder Elf said softly, kneeling and smoothing the child's hair away from her face, "what is this all about?"

            "Th-there's a… a… in my room!" Lelemir stammered out, pointing back the way she had come with a shaking hand.

            "There's a what in your room, _pen-tithen?_" Merethen asked patiently.

            "A _squirrel!" the princess wailed._

            The attendant's brows raised incredulously.  "A squirrel?  In your room?" she repeated.

            Lelemir nodded vigorously, sniffing.  "It was in m-my hair when I woke up," she explained haltingly, sounding as though she might start crying all over again.  "Chittering at me!  And staring at me with those horrible little black eyes!  It got all tangled in my hair!"

            Merethen took in the disheveled state of the little princess' tresses; they _did look like some creature had made a nest in them.  __But a squirrel, this deep in the palace?  "What happened to the squirrel, Lelemir?" she asked patiently._

"I guess I scared it away with my screaming, but oh!"  The Elfling hugged her slender arms, her face still paler than was normal.  "I _hate_ those things!"

            The attendant smoothed down the little girl's rumpled green nightdress.  _It was likely a nightmare,_ she decided.  "I thought you hated water, _pen-tithen_," she reminded gently.  "Remember when you had that bad dream about falling into Morn Nen?"

            Lelemir responded with an imperious glare.  "I hate them _both,_" she answered, her tone clearly reprimanding the elder Elf for not appreciating that fact.  "And it _wasn't_ a bad dream!  It was real!"

            "Ah."  Merethen nodded, hiding a smile; the princess' glower had greatly resembled her mother's for just a moment.  _I wonder if King Thranduil has ever noticed it,_ she thought fondly.  He likely had; since Queen Astalaewen's death a scant two years before, the king had taken to watching his children attentively to see the resemblances they bore his cherished wife.  Merethen herself had often overheard Thranduil murmuring, "That was Aewen's smile," and "Mithgilhíri stitches with her mother's hands," and the like.  _How dearly he misses her, the attendant mused with a sad smile.  __How dearly do we all…_

            "I'm going to get Legolas for this," Lelemir was muttering to herself, fussing with one long lock of hair that had slipped over her right shoulder.

            Merethen arched an inquiring brow.  "What, pray tell, does your younger brother have to do with a squirrel in your room?" she asked.

            "It's _his squirrel," the princess answered with an annoyed frown.  "He and his stupid friends have been catching squirrels for weeks and keeping them in cages.  He must have let that one into my room on purpose, just to scare me!"_

            The elder Elf had to admit to herself that it sounded like just the sort of prank Greenwood's youngest prince had become infamous for.  Nonetheless, she responded, "Are you sure it was Legolas, Lelemir?  The squirrel could have gotten in through a window and ended up in your room accidentally."

            Lelemir stared at Merethen as though the attendant had grown four extra arms.  "Of _course_ it was him, Merethen," she said plainly.  "Why else did he get up so early this morning and leave for Car an Neled?"

            Merethen paused.  Car an Neled, the House for Three, was the tree house that Legolas and his friends most often retreated to when they had either committed some mischief or were planning on doing so.  "How do you know he got up and went there?" she asked.  "You were asleep."

            "Brethil's big mouth woke me up for a few minutes when he and Tavor came to meet Legolas in his room," the little princess replied crossly.  "I could hear them outside my door.  Brethil was talking about the food he and Tavor managed to get from the kitchen when Galion wasn't looking, and about how they were going to have a breakfast picnic in their tree house instead of coming to the table."

            "Without asking?" Merethen murmured, shaking her head.  The young prince was quite the worrisome scamp, at times.  _Especially when his father isn't here to reprimand him straight away!_

            "Brethil said he'd left a note in the kitchen for Galion, telling him where they were going," Lelemir continued, grinning in spite of herself.  "Legolas wasn't very happy about that.  He said something about Master Tanglinna finding them."

            "He did, did he?" thrummed a sudden voice above the princess and the kneeling attendant.

            Merethen looked up, startled, and saw the Master Archer himself looming over them.  The Elf maiden stood hastily and gave a slight bow.  "Good morning, Master Tanglinna," she said, somewhat flustered to have been caught unawares so easily.

            "Good morning, Lady Merethen," Tanglinna replied, his silvery gaze flicking from the dark-haired attendant to the golden-haired princess in short order.  "And good morning to you, _tithen cwen.  Forgive my interruption, but I believe I overheard you saying that Legolas has gone to Car an Neled?"_

            Lelemir stared up at the tall Master Archer with the gravest expression she could muster.  Whereas Legolas and his friends were utterly intimidated by Tanglinna, the little princess had somehow landed herself permanently in the archer's good graces, and she knew it very well.  "Yes, Master Tanglinna," she answered, nodding.  Her voice was full of innocuous charm, but Merethen thought she saw a smirk flickering around the edges of the little girl's lips.  "Is he in trouble again?" 

            Tanglinna quirked one expressive brow.  "Why do you think that, _nin cwen?_"

            "He left a squirrel in my room," Lelemir told him indignantly, pointing down the hallway toward the scene of the crime.  "It got caught in my hair!  Did he leave one in your room, too?"

            "Lelemir," Merethen chided, "even Legolas knows far better than to do such a thing."  She glanced at Tanglinna's face, and the scowl she read in his features effectively halted that line of thinking.  The attendant's eyes widened.  "Oh, no," she breathed.  "He did."

            "Fifteen squirrels, to be precise," Tanglinna ground out.  "I believe your squirrel is one of the escapees from my room, _tithen cwen_."  He glanced down the length of the hallway, then nodded curtly to both Merethen and her small charge.  "If you ladies will excuse me…"  With that, the Master Archer strode past them and continued down the corridor, his long paces frighteningly purposeful.

            Merethen heard a smothered giggle and turned to see Lelemir, her hands clapped over her mouth, slim shoulders shaking with scarcely-contained glee.  "What is so funny, young lady?" the attendant asked.

            Lelemir's silver eyes had crimped to teary crescents, and she could barely speak around her giggles.  _"Fifteen squirrels!" she squeaked out.  "Legolas is **_so_ dead this time!"**_

            At that, Merethen shook her head disapprovingly, but could not restrain her own low, rueful chuckle.  _Not **dead**, perhaps, she thought, looking down the hallway after Tanglinna, __but certainly in far more trouble than he has ever been in before._

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dawn broke over Greenwood the Great as splendidly as ever it had.  The Sun's rays trickled through the increasingly bare branches and danced on the forest floor, casting cheery patterns of burnished gold across the dew-dampened paths.  Most of those trails were unoccupied, save for the host of fallen leaves whirling in the morning's breeze and the little birds fluttering down to inspect the moist earth for worms and other such fare.

One pathway, however, was lightly trodden by small, nimble Elfling feet.  Legolas and Tavor made their leisurely way toward Car an Neled, the House for Three, a small bungalow of sorts built into a large beech tree.  Each of them bore a shallow woven basket filled with breakfast treats and covered with napkins—their intended picnic provisions, "borrowed" from Galion earlier that morning.  The two younglings walked in the scattered sunbeams, chattering and laughing with childish glee, and glancing over their shoulders from time to time, seeking the third member of their party.  To their increasing consternation, Brethil was nowhere in sight.  Their talkative friend had met them outside Legolas' room, as planned; after that, however, he had set out on his own, for reasons he had refused to share.  Tavor and Legolas had assumed he would join them on the path to their tree house in a short while, but as yet he had not turned up.

Tavor, in particular, was ill at ease with Brethil's disappearance.  "Where do you suppose he has gone?" he muttered, his fine features painted with a mixture of puzzlement and worry.  Possibilities flashed before his eyes, each one more alarming than the last.  He dearly hoped that Brethil wasn't running to Tanglinna to check on the squirrels; both Legolas and Tavor feared that the Master Archer would soon be on their scent anyway, hunting them down like scary Saeros the Tracker, and Brethil's incriminating blather wouldn't help the situation.  _Why hasn't he come after us already? Tavor wondered, casting another nervous glance over his shoulder.  He had half-expected Tanglinna to rouse them all from their beds the previous night, demanding an explanation for the squirrels in his room.  What was taking the Master Archer so long this time?  Was he merely toying with them, waiting for the level of anxious, guilty anticipation to escalate until they ran to him begging for forgiveness?  _Is that where Brethil went?_ Tavor thought, his face whitening at the prospect.  Had Brethil told everything?  What was he saying to someone __at that very moment?  "Where do you suppose he is?" he repeated, his voice squeaking out in panic._

"I am sure I don't know," Legolas answered, shaking his head and shrugging at his friend's fearful expression.  Brethil seldom went anywhere without them, and he never went anywhere alone.  The youngest prince of Greenwood sighed, just as perplexed as Tavor.  He doubted Brethil had gone to Master Tanglinna.  _But he did leave that note for Galion telling him where we were going this morning,_ a small voice reminded.  Legolas frowned faintly.  That might have been the responsible thing to do, but it hadn't shown much discretion, considering their status as wanted felons.  _I hope that doesn't become a problem later, he thought ruefully.  "You know he'll tell us where he went eventually," Legolas continued.  "He always does."_

Tavor nodded, grinning in spite of his anxiety.  "That's true."  He knew as well as everyone else that Brethil couldn't keep a secret to save his life.

Legolas sighed once more and smiled contentedly, his silver gaze winging upward and lighting on a shower of leaves drifting to the ground, shaken loose by the light autumn breeze.  As was often the case, the princeling felt his senses being drawn in by the trees' slow, slumbering songs.  He, like his royal father, had always enjoyed the woodland's drowsy murmuring as it shed its gloriously colorful foliage in preparation for the winter's rest.  Though he was not nearly so adept at interpreting the Greenwood's mood and tidings, the young prince possessed his family's heightened woodland perception, and he could already hear more of the forest's voice than most Elflings his age.

Something was different about the trees' singing, Legolas thought, cocking his head in mild curiosity.  It wasn't the usual relaxed droning that he associated with autumn.  _It's almost…sad, the youngling thought in confusion, pausing on the path and staring up into the gently swaying boughs far above.  His brows knit as he tried with all his might to discern exactly what the trees were saying to one another, but at his tender age, he could only make out the faintest whispers of distress and disturbance rippling through the leaves.  _

"What's wrong, Legolas?" Tavor asked, turning as he realized that his companion was no longer at his side.  He saw the look of mild anxiety flickering on his friend's features, and panic blossomed again.

"I…I don't know," Legolas answered faintly, straining all of his senses.  "The trees…"

Tavor's gaze floated upward, taking in bark, branches, and dying leaves.  "What is it?" he queried.  He truly didn't sense anything amiss with the trees; but he, like everyone in Greenwood, knew that the royal family was far more sensitive to the woodland's towering denizens.  Tavor watched Legolas carefully, noting every breath, every slight twitch of the eyebrows and lips as his friend stared up into the interlaced branches.  A horrible thought occurred to him.  Did the trees perhaps know that Master Tanglinna was coming after them, and were trying to warn Legolas?  Was that it?  Tavor chewed his lips anxiously, trying without success to pick up on whatever had caught the prince's attention.

Legolas shook his head slowly, his eyes dropping down to settle on Tavor.  "I don't know," he said finally.  "The trees are just…"  He shrugged helplessly, still somewhat disconcerted.  Then, he forced a smile, remembering that he and his friend had been planning a cheerful picnic.  _We don't need my gloom and doom this morning, he thought.  __There's enough to worry about as it is, with Tanglinna possibly coming after us!  "Maybe Glavrol is practicing his archery," the prince suggested.  He laughed slightly, recalling the upset mutterings from the underbrush every time Glavrol picked up his bow.  "You know how the trees feel about that!"_

Tavor stared at him, struggling to read anything in his friend's face that might signal something more disastrous in the works.  Was Legolas just trying to lighten the mood, when trouble was heading straight for them in the form of an angry silver-haired archer?  _Please, let it just be Glavrol's arrows! he thought.  Aloud, he said only, "I guess that must be it."  Then, Tavor shrugged his shoulders and straightened importantly, determined not to let the day be spoiled with any more worries than it already contained.  "After all," he drawled, "not everyone can be as good at archery as I am."_

Legolas' brows rose, and his slim fingers shifted beneath his basket of breakfast treats.  He tried to shut out the leaves' rustling, hoping that it was nothing very serious.  And, more importantly, that it didn't concern three guilty Elflings and an unhappy Master Archer.  "Oh, really?  Well, I heard Master Tanglinna say that Mithereg will be better than you one day if you don't start taking it more seriously."

"He did not!" Tavor protested indignantly, though he did wince slightly at the mention of Tanglinna.  "I am the best in our age group, and you know it!"

"You are not!" Legolas objected.  "After yesterday morning, _I'm the best in the group!"_

"Are not!" Tavor countered.

"Am too!"

"Are not!"

"Am too!"

And the two Elflings moved down the pathway once more, arguing all the while, infinitely relieved to have something else to talk about for a time.  After a while, even Legolas managed to forget the disturbing murmurs he had detected, unaware that the trees' tidings were indeed humming with anger and alarm, for much had gone amiss the evening before.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Some time later, Legolas and Tavor were seated on the floor of Car an Neled, their treats spread between them on clean napkins of green linen embroidered with tiny leaves of golden beech and silver oak.  Brethil had finally shown up, his face flushed, and the fingers of his right hand slightly reddened.  He had refused to tell his friends where he had been, immediately shoving a piece of bread in his mouth to prevent himself from telling his secret.  Tavor had snorted at the tactic, his mind already running through the various methods by which he could get Brethil to let something slip, and had joined his friends in their eager picnicking.  

            Eventually, Tavor and Legolas abandoned the meal in favor of continuing their earlier dispute.  Tavor bragged at length about his prowess with the bow, citing his swift mastery of fletching and near-flawless stance as two of the many reasons for his obvious superiority.  Legolas, in turn, contradictorily boasted that he could now shoot even faster than Tavor, and was therefore the best in the group.

            "You were not that fast," Tavor protested with a frowning glare.  He, Tavor Heledirion, had been the fastest, he was sure of it!

            "I was too," Legolas returned, narrowing his grey eyes in a childish imitation of his Ada's legendary glare.  He knew he had done very well the day before, maybe even well enough to impress Master Tanglinna!

            "Were not!"

            "Was too!"

            "Were not!"

            "Was too!"

            Soon after the argument began, Brethil wisely placed some distance between himself and his two arguing friends.  He stood at the small window and chattered quietly with the little brown sparrow sitting in his palm, feeding it crumbs from his own food and delighting in its cheery company.  His Ada loved the birds very much, and had instilled that affection for all feathered things in his only child.  The trees outside Brethil's home were continually alive with the fluttering and twittering of birds, all of whom were welcome (and willing) to dart inside for a visit with Bronadui and his family.  Brethil had learned to speak gently and politely to the little creatures, and they never feared him as they did his louder friends. 

A pronounced thump, accompanied by a particularly loud "Was _too!_" startled both Brethil and his sparrow companion.  The Elfling turned to see that Legolas and Tavor had risen to their feet and were glaring openly at each other.  Brethil grimaced.

            "I am better than you now, Tavor," Legolas declared, lifting his head haughtily as he scrutinized his slightly taller friend.  "You just won't admit it."

            "You are not!  I am the best on the archery field, and well you know it.  _You just won't admit __that!"  Tavor sneered, folding his arms over his chest and staring down at his shorter friend.  He straightened up in an attempt to appear even bigger._

            "You may have been, Tavor, but after yesterday,_ I_ have become the best on the archery field!"

            "You have not!"

            "I have so!"

            "Have not!"

            "Have so!"

            "Have not!"

            "Have so!"

            Brethil sighed, looking back to the sparrow and shaking his head.  "They are rather silly, aren't they," he murmured, stroking the bird's soft head.  "Of course, if I were as good as they are, then I might not think it was silly.  I might think it was very important to argue over who is best.  They are both very good.  Legolas did better yesterday than he ever has before."  The child tipped his blond head to one side as the sparrow flitted out the window to perch on a branch with his fellows.  "Tavor is good too, though.  He always is.  So I hope they don't ask me to decide."  A small, secret smile touched his lips.  "Perhaps I will someday be as good as they are…someday soon…and is that Master Tanglinna?" 

 Brethil leaned out the window to see the Master Archer striding purposefully toward the tree in which their house was perched.  The Elfling considered waving to him, and raised his hand to do so, but when the silvery head lifted, Brethil could see that Tanglinna was not in a chummy mood.  His slim hand dropped back to the windowsill.  

"He does not look very happy, does he?" he whispered to the bird.  "Um, Legolas?  Tavor?"  Brethil blinked in utter amazement as the tall Master Archer began to climb their beech tree as nimbly as any youngling.  "I think we have company," he murmured, slowly edging away from the window.  "Legolas?  Tavor?"  

            The two were still engaged in their glaring match, each daring the other to be the first to look away.  They were effectively ignoring Brethil, for the one who did look away would be the loser; therefore, paying attention to anything just now would make the other victorious, and neither future warrior was willing to concede the battle.  Both Legolas and Tavor had gotten quite adept at ignoring the third member of their group when the need arose.

            Brethil bit his lower lip, dropping to his knees at the "formal" entrance of Car an Neled—actually, it was the only entrance, unless one counted the windows—and staring down through the interlaced branches.  For a moment, he saw nothing.  Of a sudden, the young Elf hastily jumped back and away, as Tanglinna's head appeared in the hole cut in the floor.  "He's here," Brethil whispered, retreating until he felt the wall against his back.  "He moves very fast for someone so _old_."

            Legolas and Tavor, meanwhile, suddenly became aware of the dead silence that filled the tree house.  Brethil's constant chatter was ever a background noise, rather like bird song…or, to be absolutely truthful, like the irritating prattle of starlings.   Its absence was as loud and effective to their ears as a scream for help.  The two Elflings slowly turned, first seeing Brethil cowering in the corner against the wall, his eyes wide.  Then, they watched in horror as Tanglinna eased gracefully into Car an Neled, a rather fierce scowl on his face.

            Tavor felt his stomach jolt with panic, and his breath caught in his throat as the Master Archer's wintry glare chilled the warm afternoon air in the tree house.  They were caught!  **_Why_**_ did Brethil have to leave that note? his mind wailed frantically.  __Why didn't we go **steal** that note?  Why—?_

            "Well, younglings," Tanglinna began, folding his arms over his chest.  His head brushed the ceiling, which somehow made him seem even taller and more dreadful than he was.  

Brethil sighed loudly and shook his head, his eyes darting momentarily to where his two accomplices stood, dumbstruck.  He could count on no help from them.  They always seemed to fall to pieces at times like these!  "You didn't like the squirrels, did you, Master Tanglinna?" he asked quietly as he turned back to the Master Archer.  A sharp intake of breath and an undignified squeak caught the young Elf's attention, and he glanced back at Tavor and Legolas.  They were staring at him in horrified disbelief, their eyes wide, and Legolas' mouth was hanging open in a most unseemly fashion. 

_They look at me like this is **my fault,**_ Brethil thought in amazement.  "I told you he wouldn't think it was very nice, didn't  I?" he chided his friends.  "Why do you look so surprised?  _I_ think they are cute, and _you_ think they are cute, but Master Tanglinna is a grown-up, and they are not always amused by the same things that we younglings are," he stated seriously, his pale grey eyes somber.  "Poor little squirrels."

              Tanglinna turned an annoyed stare on Tavor and Legolas, who looked stricken.  "I take it that the squirrels were yours?" he queried flatly, raising one silver brow. 

            Legolas dropped his gaze to the floor and grimaced.  How had they gotten caught so easily?  He hadn't truly thought they would get away with it.  Not entirely, anyway.  There _had_ been that faint outside chance that no one would guess too soon…but Brethil had just admitted to their guilt as though it were of no great consequence.

            _Brethil! _the princeling thought with an inward groan.  _For the Valar's sake, **why** did _you have to tell him?__

Tavor, for his part, swallowed and stared up at the Master Archer for a moment, then moved to stand behind his prince.  It was the prince's job, after all, to protect his subjects.  Surely an angry Tanglinna was a peril worthy of royal defense!

            "Oh, yes," Brethil blithely answered Tanglinna's rhetorical inquiry.  "They are ours.  It took us ever so long to catch them.  They are very fast and very clever, you know.  They really are very cute, too.  You should just look at them again.  Were they doing any tricks?  We tried to teach them some, but they didn't seem to understand what we wanted them to do.  Or perhaps they thought they were silly tricks to do and felt it was beneath them to do them.  I don't know."  The Elfling shook his head, leaning against the wall.  "Squirrels are not like us, are they?  I mean, they climb the trees even better than we do, and they run very quickly, and—"

            "Shut up, Brethil!"

            The child blinked and gazed at the three who had spoken those three oft-heard words in unison.  "What?" he asked, his voice low and confused, not understanding why they all looked so irritated with him.  "I was merely saying—"

            Tanglinna cleared his throat to halt the continuing cascade of words from Bronadui's young son.  "Well, younglings," he said, resuming his earlier line of questioning.  "Why were your squirrels in my room?"

            Greenwood's youngest prince glanced at where Tavor had been standing a moment before, but was surprised and annoyed to see that his friend was now cowering behind him.  He grabbed Tavor's arm and pulled him forward to stand at his side.  If they were going to get into trouble this soon, they would all be in it together.  Having thusly repositioned his ally, Legolas stared pleadingly at Tavor, his silver-tongued friend who always had a ready answer on his lips.  The princeling was dismayed when the other child merely shrugged apologetically and gave a weak smile.

            "Um, you see," Legolas began, his gaze darting from the Master Archer down to the floor, where one of his own feet traced a meandering pattern on the wood.  "We thought…that is…we were…well, we thought…in _your_ room, you say?"

            Tanglinna sighed patiently.  "You thought what, _nin caun?  That I would enjoy having those squirrels tear up my room because they looked so cute doing it?"_

            "Well…yes?"  Legolas made a sickly sound in his throat, something between a laugh and a choke.  Why _had_ they let the squirrels loose?  What possible reason could he give that wouldn't get them into even more trouble?  "You see…after the lesson yesterday we…Tavor, Brethil, and I, I mean…we thought that perhaps…you see…"  His grey eyes wandered to Brethil, who was watching him with a look of anticipation on his face, as though he was as keen to hear the answer as was Tanglinna.  Why had Brethil mentioned that the squirrels were theirs, anyway?  Why had he said anything at all?  _Because he is Brethil, Legolas thought irritatedly.  Every time they got into trouble, it was somehow all Brethil's fault…Brethil's fault…  Then, it clicked.  "We were afraid that you wouldn't…wouldn't let Brethil come with us on the hunting trip!"  Legolas finished with a bright smile, thinking that this was the perfect answer to their dilemma.  It was concern for their friend that had prompted their prank, of course!  How noble of them!_

            Brethil frowned and pushed away from the wall to stare up at the Master Archer.  "You will let me go on the squirrel hunt, won't you, Master Tanglinna?  I will work very hard to get faster.  I know I can be, it is just so hard to not take the time to aim.  I mean, you were always telling us to aim very carefully so we would hit what we were aiming at.  That is why it is so hard to _not aim carefully, you see?"  His pale eyes got huge in the brightening sunlight streaming down into the tree house.  "But I will try hard, I promise.  Please don't leave me behind!"_

            Tanglinna turned to look down at the child, surprise rippling across his features.  He sighed again and shook his head, stifling a chuckle.  He had indeed drilled accuracy into them, and now he was telling them not to worry about their aim or where the arrows flew.  There was a kind of sense in the youngling's argument.  "I wasn't going to leave you behind, Brethil," the Master Archer said kindly.  "It was silly of you to think that."

            Brethil smiled up at him with relief, then gave his friends a reassuring grin.  "He isn't an Old Sourpuss like you and Tavor say, Legolas.  He is very nice, see?"

            Legolas gasped, and felt Tavor shudder as he pressed against the princeling's side.

            "So," Tanglinna said slowly, turning back to regard the two.  "You thought that by putting squirrels in 'Old Sourpuss'' room, you would convince me to change my mind and allow Brethil to go on the hunting trip.  I see."

            The prince nodded, trying to force a sincere smile to his lips.  _Yes, yes,_ he thought, _that is it…all of it_. 

            "Well, no, Master Tanglinna," Brethil volunteered.  "That is not quite all of it.  You see…"          

            "_No," Legolas moaned under his breath._

            Tanglinna allowed a considerate smile.  He had not _thought that was "quite all of it."_

            "Legolas, you know I wasn't going to say that it was because you were angry about not going with King Thranduil on his hunt, or that Tavor was upset about the scolding," Brethil admonished his friend.  "Or that Master Tanglinna wasn't very nice to me either, calling me 'slow' and all.  You did say that, Master Tanglinna.  Don't you remember?  But truly, Master Tanglinna, Tavor and Legolas did say they thought you needed some fun and that you would run to thank us for putting our cute little squirrels in your room.  Oh!  Is that why you are here?  Are you going to thank us for it?  Well, you are quite welcome.  Really.  You may borrow them anytime you wish."  He smiled up at the Master Archer, quite unaware of the frozen horror on his friends' faces.

            Tanglinna scowled, his annoyance rushing back to the fore with Brethil's ingenuous rambling admissions.  Fun?  _Fun?_  The Master Archer shook his head.  The younglings certainly had unique ideas about the definition of that word.  "You three had better come with me," he said, one long finger pointing insistently at the "formal" entrance.  "Now."  The silver eyes flitted to the remnants of the Elflings' breakfast.  "And bring the rest of your picnic with you," Tanglinna added.

            Legolas gulped slightly and hung his head, kneeling beside Tavor to gather the napkins and leftover treats.   How could Brethil have managed to report all of that in one breath?  Everything they had said had fallen so effortlessly from those chattery lips, and now they were certainly caught.  The prince knew very well what that meant: yet another edition of The Long, Boring Lecture That Is For Your Own Good.

            When he and Tavor had finished collecting the remains of the picnic, Legolas rose and moved slowly toward the hole, one napkin-laden basket clutched in his slender hands.  As he passed Tanglinna, the princeling turned his head and looked mournfully up at the tall archer.  "They…the squirrels didn't…well, they didn't mess things up too much, did they?" Thranduil's youngest asked quietly.  _Maybe we won't be in as much trouble if they behaved better than I think they did,_ he thought, hope glimmering faintly through the gloom.

            Tanglinna's silvery brows lifted.  "No, _nin caun, my room was not too messed up."_

            Legolas' mouth curved in a brief smile of gratefulness, and he silently whispered his thanks to Elbereth for watching over him and his friends in their foolishness.  He grinned reassuringly at Tavor, who sagged slightly with relief as he watched his prince drop out of sight, holding the basket in one hand and navigating the branches with the other.  

Tavor, for his part, had been imagining the scolding he would get when his grandmother, Laureahiril, found out what had happened.  Tanglinna's scoldings were as nothing when compared to hers.  Laureahiril was the Queen of Tongue-lashings; her voice, which was really quite beautiful when she was in a good mood, would be harsh and shrewish…and, well, flat-out _scary_.  Tavor winced just thinking about it.  _Not to mention what King Thranduil will say when he gets back and finds out,_ the Elfling thought morosely as he maneuvered through the branches below Car an Neled, juggling his own basket back and forth as he descended.  He jumped lightly to the ground and ran his free hand through his long hair, his relief dissolving as swiftly as it had materialized.  "We're still dead," he muttered to Legolas, who nodded grimly in agreement.

            Up in the tree house, Brethil knelt and grasped the flooring on either side of the door in preparation to leave, but before he climbed down, he lifted his face and grinned up at the Master Archer.  "Did the squirrels do any tricks?" he asked again, hope coloring his young voice.

            Tanglinna couldn't help but smile down at the child's innocent inquiry, and he bent to run affectionate fingers over the blond head.  "No, Bronaduion, they did not."

            "Oh," Brethil sighed, his eyes filled with disappointment.  "I didn't think they would."  He disappeared into the leaves and scuttled down to the ground, where Legolas and Tavor were speaking together in hushed tones.

            Tanglinna soon joined them, and he motioned toward the palace.  "_Nin caun_," he said in a neutral voice, "I suggest you get home immediately."

            Legolas nodded, wondering vaguely when The Lecture would begin.  "Yes.  We, um…we will catch the squirrels.  That shouldn't be too hard, since your room isn't very big."

            The Master Archer's lips quirked in a quicksilver smile as the three young Elves headed away from him.  "_Nin caun_," he called softly, then waited until all three had turned to look at him.

"Yes, Master Tanglinna?" Legolas answered meekly, fully expecting the boring lecture to begin.

            "The squirrels aren't in my room any longer."

            "They aren't?"  Dread trickled through the princeling's slender frame, and he swallowed.  Of course the squirrels wouldn't still be in Tanglinna's room; they had let them go last night, before the Master Archer had gone to his room for the night.  "Um…where are they?" he asked cautiously.

            Tanglinna studied the three young faces, already guessing how they would react to this bit of news.  "Well," he drawled, moving past them with an amused glint in his eyes, "I am not entirely certain."

            Legolas' eyes widened, and he winced slightly at the casual statement.  "You aren't?"

            "No.  I have not seen them since yesterday.  But it appears that others have."  Tanglinna turned to see that the younglings were following him, trotting at his heels in a little knot of worry and fear.  Their dismay was quite palpable.

            Brethil's murmur floated to the Master Archer's sensitive ears.  "Poor little things," Bronadui's son was saying.  "They must be very scared.  It is a good thing that your Ada isn't here, Legolas.  He wouldn't like them running about in his palace."

            Tanglinna suppressed the errant smile that pressed at his lips before continuing, "They escaped my room when I opened the door yesterevening.  I thought that perhaps you would have collected them before you went to bed last night, but you didn't."  One silver brow lifted reproachfully.  "That was rather inconsiderate of you, _nin caun_.  Now you owe your sister an apology as well."

            "My sister?"

            Tanglinna nodded, a low noise of confirmation thrumming in his chest.  "It seems that Lelemir was unpleasantly torn from her dreams this morning."

            Legolas' eyes slid to Tavor, who looked entirely too pale by far.  "Oh?" the princeling choked out.

"Yes.  She was quite rudely awakened by something playing with her hair."

            "Oh."  Thranduil's son blinked, his overactive mind suddenly flooded with images of his slightly older sister waking up to find one or two—or even_ three_—black squirrels tugging on her hair.  _"Oh."_

            Tanglinna repressed the urge to chuckle at his young prince's dismayed expression.  "Yes.  Imagine her distress when she awoke with one of your 'cute' little squirrels tangled in her hair."

Legolas groaned softly.  He felt a tug of sympathy for Lelemir; such an experience would have been quite terrifying, even though he didn't hate squirrels as much as his sister did.  The youngling's fingers strayed to his own long braid, and he swallowed.  "I am very sorry," he whispered, his gaze dropping heavily to the ground.  "I didn't think this would happen."

            The Master Archer harrumphed.  "That is exactly my point, _nin caun._  You didn't think."  He leveled a considering stare on the Elfling's bowed head.  "Your father will likely have something to say about this when he returns, Legolas.  You had better hope that the hunt is _very successful."_

            Legolas' shoulders slumped dejectedly.  Ada would _not_ be happy to hear about his youngest son's latest prank.  How could they possibly have thought themselves so clever when they had first conceived this prank?  _When **I** conceived it, he privately amended.  He sighed, scuffing his toe on the ground.  "I will go and apologize to Lelemir as soon as we have caught them," he said contritely.  For good measure, he then added, "It was a very foolish thing to do."  A sideways glance at Brethil and Tavor prompted the other two Elflings to nod vigorously in agreement._

            Tanglinna wasn't fooled for a moment, but he let it slide and beckoned to the younglings.  As they resumed their journey back to the palace, the Master Archer remarked, "You will need to apologize to Galion, too.  And to Turgil.  Do you recall the lovely goblets your elder brother gave to your father?  Your squirrels caused a mishap that led to the unfortunate denting of some of those goblets."  The silver-haired archer cast a glance down at Legolas' wide-eyed stare.  "Galion is not happy about that."           

"Dented goblets?" Legolas repeated faintly.

            Tanglinna nodded sagely.  "Yes.  I also overheard Thaldris telling someone that one of the tapestries hanging in the eastern corridor was found lying on the floor this morning, marred with several small tears and mysterious droppings."

            Tavor let out an alarmed squeak.  Laureahiril would _really_ have something to say about this.  He wondered how many tedious, boring excerpts he would have to copy from the battered books she had carried with her into her so-called "exile."  And how many tedious, boring tasks would he be assigned until his grandmother felt he had learned his lesson?  _This is the absolute **last time I'm going to listen to Legolas' stupid ideas! he decided, shooting a black glare at his friend.  The fact that he had made that decision every **__other time he'd been caught in one of those ideas was an irony lost on his panicked young mind._

            "Is…is there anything else?"  Legolas asked in a quavering voice.  He most certainly hoped his father's hunt would be successful.  In fact, he hoped it would be the most successful hunt in the entire history of hunts.  _But I hope it won't be successful for a few more days…actually, several more days, the princeling thought.  The more time that passed by before Ada found out about the squirrels, the better the chances were that he would see the amusement in this.  Legolas swallowed miserably.  __Amusement…_

            Tanglinna picked up on the genuine remorsefulness underlying Legolas' glum anxiety.  _I may not even have to give him a lecture,_ the Master Archer thought, shaking his head and stifling a fond chuckle.  "Not that I know of, _nin caun_," he replied, not unkindly.

            Brethil sighed from his place at Tanglinna's left, wringing his slender hands.  "They must be so scared," he repeated, still thinking of the squirrels.  "What are we to do with them?  They will be wild with fright!"

            "I suggest that you let them go," Tanglinna said as they approached the bridge that spanned the Forest River, and beyond that, the great door to Thranduil's palace.  "They don't wish to live in cages, _tithen min_, or in the palace.  The trees are where they want to be."

            Brethil sighed once more, and nodded.  "I suppose that is true.  But…"  He stared up at the Master Archer, his pale eyes filled with sudden fear.  "What if we shot them on the squirrel hunt?!  What if we killed _our_ squirrels?  We can't do that!  Oh, please, Master Tanglinna!  Don't shoot my little squirrels!"  The child twined his slim fingers with Tanglinna's larger ones, tugging anxiously on the archer's hand.  "Please.  They really _are_ cute, even if they can't do any tricks!"

            Tanglinna granted the Elfling a brief smile and paused, motioning for Legolas and Tavor to go on ahead to the palace.  The prince swallowed convulsively, his brows knitting together in anticipatory pain.  If what Tanglinna had said was true—and it certainly was—then he could expect quite a few lectures upon his entrance to that palace.  Not only would he receive some variation of the The Long, Boring Lecture That Is For Your Own Good from Tanglinna, but he would also get the lecture on How A Prince Is Supposed To Act from Galion, and The Responsibilities Expected Of Someone Your Age from Thaldris. 

_And Lelemir isn't exactly pleasant when she's upset, either,_ Legolas thought with a wince.  "We really are very sorry, Master Tanglinna," he murmured quietly.

            "I know that, _nin caun_.  Now, go and see what this prank has wrought.  And don't forget it the moment your punishment is over," Tanglinna admonished.

            Legolas nodded, knowing he would not forget this for some time.  He and Tavor then trudged up the steps and into the palace, only sparing a glance behind to see Tanglinna turning to speak to Brethil.

            The Master Archer knelt before Bronadui's son, a surprisingly gentle smile lingering on his lips.  "If you fear we might shoot your squirrels on the hunt, Brethil, then we won't have a squirrel hunt.  The king and I will come up with something else.  Don't worry.  I wouldn't want to shoot them either."  Tanglinna raised a considering brow, and for the child's benefit, he added, "They were rather…cute."

            Brethil stared at him for a moment, seeing only sincerity in the silvery eyes.  A brilliant smile lit his features.  "Thank you, Master Tanglinna," he chirped, then moved away, hurrying after his friends.  After only a few steps, however, he turned and ran back to throw his arms around Tanglinna's neck in a quick embrace.  The silver-haired archer gave the Elfling an affectionate squeeze in return, a low chuckle humming in his chest at the child's enthusiasm.

            Brethil pulled away and gave Tanglinna a curious look.  "Who is the lady in the picture on your wall?" he asked, remembering how he had been drawn to it the day before.

            A nearly imperceptible glimmer of pain flickered deep within the Master Archer's gaze, but his smile remained warm and inviting.  "She was my wife," he answered quietly.

            "Oh.  I wondered.  I am glad the squirrels didn't mess anything up. She is very pretty."  Brethil flashed a parting grin, then scampered up the steps and through the immense palace gateway.

            Tanglinna's smile dimmed somewhat.  "Yes, she was," he murmured.  He rose to his feet and moved toward Thranduil's great door, wondering if there was any way he might deflect some of the punishment the younglings were sure to receive.  An amused snort followed that thought.  _I must be getting lenient in my old age,_ he mused.  He would have to hurry if he wanted to get in _his lecture before Legolas and the others were completely deafened by scolding voices.  "So ends yet another remarkable morning in the Greenwood," the Master Archer chuckled to himself.  _

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

_Later that morning…_

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Thranduil shifted painfully atop the horse's bulk, finding his new placement little more comfortable than the last.  He was yet careful to mask his movements as being part of the beast's steady gait, for though the Easterling leader evidently suspected that his captive was awake, Thranduil was hardly inclined to prove that assumption correct.  He felt the Sun's harsh, uninhibited warmth pouring over him; the air was hot and oppressive inside the cloth sack over his head, making breathing a chore.  Coupled with the abrading cord pulled tight about his wrists and the protesting of bruised, strained muscles, the sweltering atmosphere exacerbated Thranduil's already seething temper.  _Were it not for their threats against the others, I would have returned to __Greenwood__ by now, he fumed silently.  _And oh, but I would give them cause to lament the day they entered my realm…__

            The Easterling leader's dark threat concerning the other captives weighed heavily on the king's mind, a chill barb amid the flames of anger.  Time and again, he found his mind dwelling upon them—wondering who among his nineteen companions were now prisoners alongside their king, and worse, how many of those warriors had not survived to become prisoners at all.  _Elbereth cradle those who fell into mortal sleep, Thranduil thought, grief snaking its way through his fury.  _Help me to preserve those who remain._  _

            The king closed his eyes once more, as there was little use in staring endlessly at the blankness afforded by the thick cloth obscuring his vision.  A human might have been tempted to sleep, but for an Elf, closed eyes only brought about heightened awareness as the other senses sprang to full alertness in order to compensate for the lack of sight.  Thranduil's keen ears sifted through the sounds floating about him: the steady clopping of horses' hooves, the muttering of rough voices, the rustling of cloth and the grating of weapons against saddles.  He did not hear the leader's distinctively cold tone, nor did he hear the voices of any of his warriors.  _Perhaps they, too, are feigning unconsciousness, Thranduil thought, well aware that he was being atypically optimistic._

            Just as his hearing was enhanced by the temporary loss of sight, so too was the receptivity of his skin.  Thranduil concentrated on the air flowing past his bound hands.  It was hot and dry, with an almost gritty texture—_dust kicked up by the horses ahead, the Elvenking presumed.  It was not Greenwood's air.  It was the parched, thirsty atmosphere of the desert._

There were few things so disturbing to a Wood-elf as the life-starved silence of a desert, and Thranduil in especial was deeply disturbed by it.  From his youth, Oropher's son had lived among whispering boughs and leaves, his extraordinarily receptive young ears inundated with the songs and murmurings of the forest.  He had always possessed an uncanny sensitivity to the moods and murmurs of the woodland; it was one of the more peculiar traits he had acquired from his father.  From the sheltered canopies of Doriath to the ever-singing haunted depths of Ossiriand, and finally to the eastern expanse of Greenwood the Great, Thranduil had walked in the company of living forests' thrumming for as long as he could remember.  He knew the trees of his own realm as thoroughly as a shepherd knew his flock; the woodland's steady hum was as an omnipresent chorus, one that seemed at times to dictate the very rhythm of the king's heartbeat.

Since his waking the night before, however, the absence of the Greenwood's constant hum had been plucking at Thranduil's mind, niggling at his awareness like a painfully entrenched splinter.  The barely perceptible breeze coughed across the land without a hint of living song to sweeten it.  That silence, so utterly foreign and unnatural, served to set the king even more on edge.  _The earth itself is dead, he thought darkly.  __A dry, desiccated corpse charring to ash beneath the Sun's glare.  The Easterling leader's words took on a sinister realism in light of such musing; _"…the earth will drink the lifeblood of your companions, and that most deeply,"_ the man had warned.  An icy chill raced down Thranduil's spine as a stark image of browned, thirsting dust greedily swallowing wet, crimson blood sprang to his mind.___

            That line of thinking brought a very real and insistent need to the forefront of Thranduil's attention.  His throat burned with hideous thirst.  The discomfort was likely due in part to the yellow drug, but whatever the ultimate cause, his tongue felt as dry and coarse as the air around him.  It was dangerous to go long without water in such arid surroundings, he knew.  He screwed his eyes tightly shut against the sweat rolling down his face; it was an unfamiliar and unpleasant sensation, for Elves did not often have reason to sweat so.  The heat and the rough fabric pressed against his skin, however, gave more than adequate cause.  _'Tis also dangerous to lose water in such fashion,_ Thranduil mused, frowning as he clacked his dry, swollen tongue against the roof of his mouth.  He did not think the Easterling leader so great a fool as to risk such an assault, only to lose his prize captive to lack of water—_then again, the leader was fool enough to risk the assault in the first place,_ the king reflected, his cracked lip curling upward with renewed umbrage.

            Scarcely had he finished that thought when the cold, precise voice of the leader barked out a sharp command in his own tongue.  Thranduil bit back a hiss of pain as the steed beneath him halted abruptly, jolting his aching body.  There was an outbreak of activity all around him—_they have stopped for the day,_ Thranduil surmised, recalling one of the fundamental rules of desert travel: travel mostly by night, and rest through the scorching hours of sunlight.  _He may be a fool, but he is a **desert fool, the king conceded.  Of course the leader would take into account his captive's need for water, just as he considered his own people's need.**_

            "We are going to cut your bonds and take you down from the horse, Elf king," the leader's voice informed him in clipped Westron.  "If you are uncooperative, I will spill your companions' blood to the desert floor without hesitation."  The man paused, and almost as an afterthought, he added, "You may wish to lay aside the pretense of unconsciousness now, else the dismount will be rather...awkward."

            Thranduil wanted nothing more than to feed the Easterling's arrogant words back to him—preferably on the edge of a finely honed blade—but he would not risk the lives of his people for the sake of his own smarting pride.  The aching pressure at his wrists went slack as the bindings were slit, and rough hands took hold of his left arm.  _Enough of this,_ Thranduil thought disgustedly.  He wrenched his arm away from those grasping hands and pushed himself up into a sitting position astride the horse, ignoring the vicious flares of pain that erupted in what felt like every muscle he possessed.  A sharp spasm in his right shoulder hitched his breath, and he sat still for a moment, reorienting himself.

            A hand clamped round Thranduil's left elbow, and a coarse voice demanded, "Get off, or we drag you off."

            The Elvenking's glare could likely have burned a hole through the thick fabric over his face, if given enough time.  "_You are fortunate I do not tear your arm from its mooring,_ mortal swine,_" he bit out, the fluid syllables of the Sindarin tongue rolling from his lips with far more grace than he felt at the moment.  He shook off the offensive hand once more, then slipped from the horse's back—with less than his usual elegance, he noted crossly.  Thranduil clenched his teeth against the fierce ache in his right leg as the foot touched the ground; the limb nearly folded beneath his own weight, and he was forced to steady himself against the horse's sturdy frame.  It felt as though one of the long bones in his lower leg was cracked, if not cleanly broken.___

            Distracted by the pain and heat, and blinded by the sack over his head, Thranduil was not prepared for the forcible shove against his chest.  He pitched backwards, stifling the angry curse that leaped to his throat, and swiftly twisted his body so that he caught the impact on his forearms instead of his back or head.  His injured leg wrenched beneath him as he fell, shrieking at him for the harsh treatment, and jagged spikes of pain ignited in aching limbs and joints—the right shoulder, in particular, flamed with hot anguish.

Thranduil was given no opportunity to recover himself.  He was forced down into the dust by a heavy knee in the small of his aching back, and several hands wrenched his arms behind, binding the wrists once more with cruelly abrading cord.  The king bit into his thirst-cracked lip as his ankles were similarly lashed together, putting painful stress on his damaged right leg.  A large knot of sour, shame-trampled pride rose in his throat, nearly choking him.  _Ground into the dirt and trussed up like a calf for the slaughter, Thranduil mused bitterly, his scowl darker than ever as he tasted the dust and dried blood coating his parched lips.  He had been in more dangerous circumstances, but none quite so personally offensive to him.  To his thinking, the indignity was far worse than the physical pain._

            When they had finished binding him, the Easterlings carelessly flipped their captive over and dragged his upper body up off the ground, so that he sat upright, albeit most uncomfortably.  Thranduil drew in a deep breath and held it, willing the pain in his body to wash over him and drain to a bearable measure.  He heard heavy footfalls all around, as well as the rustling sounds of a camp being assembled.  Of a sudden, the Sun's harsh rays were blocked, and the pounding of mallets nearby informed the king that a rude tent of some sort was being erected over his head.  _Thank the Valar for small blessings,_ his father's voice reminded gruffly, _especially when they lend themselves to the slaying of enemies.  Indeed, Thranduil could feel some small amount of strength returning, now that the Daystar's miserable brilliance had been effectively barred.  _Strength with which to rip their miserable souls from their bodies,_ he thought darkly.  __I wonder what sort of hell these creatures believe in?_

            "Remove the sack from his head," the Easterling leader commanded, "for I would see our Elf king in his helplessness."

            Thranduil's wrists unconsciously strained against the bindings in response to the denigrating words.  _Helpless I am not, fool human, he nearly spat aloud.  _Remove these cowardly bonds, and we shall see who is **helpless…**__

The stifling sack was pulled upwards, along with several strands of the Elvenking's long hair, which had become caught in the rough fabric.  Thranduil suppressed a wince as his head was callously jerked backwards and the ensnared locks torn.  His golden hair fell in limp, damp strands about his sweaty face, but with a cavalier flick of his sore neck, he tossed the disheveled tresses back over his shoulders.  Then, he straightened his back and looked up into the face of his captor, the Easterling leader of clipped accent and arrogant assurance.

            The man stood directly before Thranduil, just within the shade afforded by the tent cloth, which was stretched only slightly above the Easterlings' heads and tethered to poles jammed into the ground.  He was rather tall for a man of Rhûn; Thranduil estimated that the leader's height nearly equaled his own.  The face was a harshly structured collection of severe planes and angles; a long, straight nose jutted between pronounced cheekbones, beneath which lay slight depressions that sloped down to the sharply carven jawline and chin.  His skin was toughened and bronzed by the Sun, and a pair of flinty obsidian eyes peered darkly from within their calculating hollows.  The pale headdress lying folded atop his head and draped across his shoulders hid his hair, but Thranduil suspected it was long and as black as the man's thick, bristling brows.  The leader's robes were cut of dust-daubed off-white cloth, save for a crimson and black sash running across his breast and the long black tassels dangling from his belt.  Too, a long, wickedly curved blade hung from his belt, as well as a fawn-colored personal water skin.

            "Welcome to my home, Elf king," the man said, his shadowed eyes glittering with pleasure at his captive's unkempt, uncomfortable state.  "I am Ducash son of Dorash, leader and high priest of the Rhûkhara tribe."

            "A remarkable collection of titles for a dead man," Thranduil replied with forced calm, meeting the Easterling's supercilious gaze with a black glare.  His ire rose as he realized that the raw, abrasive voice he heard was his own, roughened by thirst.

            Ducash of the Rhûkhara allowed an infuriatingly patronizing smile and stepped in closer, leaning down slightly as if to inspect his captive.  "Proud words for an imminently dead Elf," he echoed, almost chidingly.  "Do not forget, I also hold some of your fellows as prisoners.  If you take any threatening action, I assure you that every other Elf in this camp will die within moments."

            "Show them to me," Thranduil demanded stiffly.  

            "You forget yourself," Ducash warned.  "This is not your demesne, nor am I an underling to be ordered about."

            The king turned a molten stare on the Easterling chieftain.  "Show them to me," he grated out once more.  "Or are your threats as lacking in substance as this wasteland you call your home?"

            Ducash's thin lips turned downward briefly at the double-edged slur, but just as swiftly twisted into a crooked smile.  "As you wish," he replied, his tone laced with mocking.  He turned and barked out an order in his own tongue to one of the robed men standing nearby.  The man gave a short bow and hurried from the crude tent.  "They will be here shortly," Ducash said, turning back to regard his captive.  "In the interim, perhaps you would like to know why I have risked so much in order to obtain you?"

            "I care not for your motives," Thranduil rasped, stifling the dry cough rattling in his lungs.  "The very deed demonstrates an appalling lack of wisdom."

            The Easterling leader's eyes narrowed.  "I do not much care for your tone, Elf king," he said softly, dangerously.  "Perhaps the Elves bear less concern for their kith than I was given to understand."

            The comment snagged Thranduil's attention; it implied that Ducash had an informant of some kind.  _An informant who could be a threat to the kingdom if allowed to escape notice, he realized.  "And who gave you anything to understand concerning the Elves?" he asked, keeping his tone as contemptuous and uninterested as possible.___

            Ducash chuckled almost congenially.  "A band of disgruntled Dalemen who dislike your policies regarding their hunting within your borders," he replied in an offhand fashion.  "They were kind enough to share what they knew of your own hunting habits, as well as a few other pieces of necessary information concerning Elves in general."  The man folded his arms across his chest and quirked an indulgent smile.  "That knowledge will do you little good, however, as you will not survive long enough to mete out any penalty to them."

            "Just how long do you expect I will survive, then, _mortal?_" Thranduil asked, matching the Easterling's smile, disdain dripping from every word.

            A barely discernable glint of anger flashed in Ducash's gaze, and then was gone, replaced by his veneer of calm superiority.  "Long enough to suffer thrice the pain you have caused my kin," he said darkly.  "And then, O deathless Elf, you will surely die, and the Dark One shall devour your soul as it escapes your broken body."  A chorus of assenting murmurs from the assembled men met the declaration.

            Thranduil arched one sculpted brow at that pronouncement—it sounded ominously similar to the rhetoric spouted by the witless Sauron-worshippers he had interrogated in the course of the siege at Barad-dûr a century past.  Before he could form a reply, however, Ducash glanced back over his shoulder, then quirked a self-satisfied smirk at the Elvenking.  "Your companions have arrived," he said, stepping aside in order to afford Thranduil a better view.

            The king swallowed a livid curse as he watched four men drag two limp bodies into sight some distance beyond the tent's open entrance.  The warriors' hands and feet were bound in a fashion similar to Thranduil's, and their heads were yet covered by coarse brown sacks.  The Easterlings carelessly dropped their burdens into the dust, where they lay as still and silent as a grave.  Thranduil forcefully halted that line of thinking, peering at the two Elves.  He could not tell whether they were breathing, for they were lying at awkward angles and their bodies were partially obscured by the men guarding them.  Their clothes were stained a rusty brown in places—_blood,_ Thranduil realized with a pang.  A heavy weight descended on his heart.  _Only two, out of nineteen, he thought in dismay.  _So few…_  Hot anger welled up, a churning cyclone that nearly choked him with its bitterness.  __So **few…**_

            "Now," Ducash interrupted the king's smoldering thoughts, reclaiming his place directly before his captive, "I know very well that you are quite thirsty, Elf king.  Sathak is going to tip the water skin for you, and I would advise you to drink, for if you do not, I shall have my men force water down your throat in a most unpleasant and inelegant fashion."

            The man standing behind Thranduil's left shoulder stepped forward and bent down, placing the mouth of a water skin at the Elvenking's parched lips.  A few droplets leaped from the container at the movement and landed on Thranduil's hot skin, and it was all he could do to restrain himself from seizing the water skin and guzzling like a newborn foal at its mother's teat.  _My pride would have me refuse, Thranduil thought crossly, his guts squirming with humiliation at the prospect of taking water from the hands of such lowly creatures as Ducash's underlings.  _Did not Tanglinna once say that my pride would one day be the death of me?_  _

Thoughts of the Master Archer lifted the king's spirit somewhat; he knew that when the attack site was discovered, Tanglinna would not rest—nor allow anyone else to do so, in fact—until Greenwood's missing sovereign was found.  _I would rather he found me in some semblance of good condition, Thranduil mused irritably, staring at the proffered water skin.  And so, cramming his violently protesting dignity down into his innards, he pressed his lips to the brim and drank.  The water was warm and somewhat sour-tasting, but it flowed over his eager tongue like the finest Dorwinion vintage.  To his credit, he did manage to restrain himself from swilling the liquid with the urgency his thirst dictated._

            When Thranduil had finished—or at least, when he could stand the indignity no longer—he pulled back and ran his tongue over his cracked, sore lips.  His thirst was sated, but the degradation churned in his stomach like the bitterest of poisons, making him nauseous with suppressed fury.

            "It seems our Elf king enjoyed his fine draught," Ducash said, his lips quirking smugly.  His men chuckled around him.  "Mayhap he has also learned some respect for those who hold his life suspended above the desert's flame, hm?"

            Part of Thranduil's tightly-held control gave way before the Easterling's patronizing tone.  He bared his teeth in an uncharacteristically Silvan fashion, and spat some of the newly-acquired moisture in his mouth at Ducash's feet.  "I will see you dead for this, human pig," he hissed, his silveron eyes narrowed in a baleful glare.  

            Ducash's gaze hardened.  Without a word, he stepped in, drew back a fist, and struck Thranduil a vicious blow across the face.  The blow snapped the king's head back with such force that something popped alarmingly in his already-aching neck.  His equilibrium shattered, Thranduil collapsed backwards and to the right, landing on his injured shoulder, and it took every ounce of control he possessed to suppress a groan of agony.  Tiny white stars—born of pain or wrath, he did not know which—flickered at the edges of his vision.  

Clenching his throbbing jaw with contained fury and pain, Thranduil struggled to right himself again, but a glance downwards revealed droplets of red sinking down into the dry earth: his own blood, spilled from a stinging split lip.  A frosty, anger-laced shudder raced up his spine as he recalled the eerily similar image of his earlier musings.  _The earth will drink the lifeblood of your companions… _ Indeed, the abused earth greedily swallowed the gift of crimson fluid, reducing it to little more than a dark, dry stain in a matter of moments.

            The Easterlings grabbed their captive's bound arms and jerked him upright again, so that he was brought face-to-face with Ducash.  Thranduil glared hatefully at the man, practically trembling with pent-up rage, his nostrils flaring furiously as the brigands behind him twisted their hands in his hair and forced his head back at an uncomfortable angle.  Ducash's gaze had calmed once more, but a dangerously gleeful spark glimmered in his eyes.  "That," he said conversationally, "was for wasting precious water in a pitiful display of inconsequential contempt."  He dabbed at the blood trickling down Thranduil's chin and contemplatively rubbed the crimson fluid between his thumb and forefinger, then stood and carelessly flicked the blood down at his captive.  "Though I might have expected such foolishness… from an _Elf_."

            Thranduil did not reply, but merely let his glare bore into the Easterling with the force of a raging inferno.  He was mildly gratified to see the leader drop his gaze, unable to maintain eye contact.  _He should be prostrating himself before me, begging for mercy,_ the Elvenking thought irately, remembering many a time when his merest stare had reduced men to such displays.  Ducash was made of far sterner stuff than most of his kin, it seemed.__

            Ducash stood and gave a string of clipped commands to his men.  The Easterlings released their contemptible hold on Thranduil, then rose and exited the crudely fashioned tent, pausing only long enough to give their leader short bows and deferential murmurs.  Ducash himself appointed two of the men to remain just within the shade, apparently to serve as guards of a sort.  The men were armed with heavy swords, and their glances at their captive were dark and full of warning.  Thranduil ground his teeth together.  His skin crawled; he wanted nothing more than to spill their mortal blood and use its vengeful scarlet brilliance to wash away the unclean feel of their hands on him.  _And I would drown Ducash in it,_ the Elvenking thought, cathartic visions of red blossoming behind his eyes.  _Drown him in his own reeking blood, and cleanse my blade with the ashes of his tribesmen…_

            The Easterling leader turned back to regard Thranduil once more, unaware of his captive's bloody-minded musings.  "You would be wise to take your rest now, while the Sun is hot," he said, his tone almost pleasant in its derision.  "I shall leave your face uncovered for the moment, but if you overly annoy my men, they may decide to punish you by placing the sack back over your head."  Ducash gave his captive a final disdainful smile, even sparing a slight incline of his head, and then took his leave.

            Thranduil closed his eyes for several moments, refusing to look at either of the men remaining in the tent.  Much as he wanted to unleash his wrath on those available targets, and as satisfying as it would have been to provoke the humans to anger, he did not wish to spend the day sweltering within the sack.  He was hot enough in the open air.  His forest green undershirt was uncomfortably damp with sweat.  _At least I am not wrapped in my cloak,_ Thranduil conceded, though he did wonder what the Easterlings had done with the cloak, as well as with his weapons.  _Perhaps they will attempt the use of my bow, and slay one another in their incompetence._  Elven bows were sometimes more dangerous in unskilled hands than they were in the hands of their owners, as Thranduil well knew, and a thrill of dark pleasure swelled in his heart as he envisioned a clumsy Easterling unintentionally spearing Ducash with an ill-aimed arrow.  

            The two captive Elven warriors had been removed from their place beyond the tent's opening.  Thranduil gave an inward sigh laced with bitter resignation.  No, he would not risk their lives for the sake of his own dignity.  _Although if I continue swallowing my pride as I have been, it will likely consume me from the inside,_ he mused irritably.  The king shifted in his bonds, and was surprised to feel a gout of pain at his wrists, accompanied by sticky warmth trickling down the backs of his hands and fingers.  In his anger, he had wrenched so hard against the restraints that the cords had bitten deeply into his skin.  In addition, his injured right leg complained most resentfully at the pressure the bindings placed on the damaged bone, and his right shoulder continued to throb mercilessly in rhythm with his aching head.

Thranduil bit down on a frustrated curse—_by Elbereth, what would my father think of such language?_ he wondered, the unprompted reflection nearly enough to quirk a smile on his bruised, bloodied lips.  Oropher had not often utilized the colorful oaths to be found within the Silvan tongue; he had considered them too crude for a Sinda of prominent lineage.  _There are no other words to suit the circumstances, Thranduil thought defensively, as though arguing the point with some phantom from his past, come to reprimand him for his errant tongue.  __Aewen would think me a fine sight, sitting here in the dust, bound and bruised, cursing my luck and disputing with my father's specter.  The impulse to smile intensified as the king imagined how cheerfully his queen's laughter would have echoed if she had heard her normally decorous husband's use of her people's more uncouth idioms._

            Much of his wrath drained away as he thought of the blue-eyed warrior maiden he had so utterly adored, and did still, even after her death.  Thranduil averted his face so that the Easterlings could not see the bleak sorrow ghosting across his countenance.  _Oh, my love, what will happen to our little ones if I do not survive? he questioned silently, his eyes darkening at that prospect.  The two eldest were fully grown adults, and though they would grieve terribly, they would likely recover with time.  Taurëmíredil, the firstborn, would take the throne of Greenwood; and Mithgilhíri, his slightly younger sister, would lend her quiet wisdom and strength to her elder brother.  They would in turn receive the guidance and support of Thranduil's counselors, Tanglinna chief among them.  The kingdom would endure despite the consecutive loss of two kings, Thranduil was confident of that._

_But **ai,** the little ones are so young yet, _Thranduil agonized silently, his eyes slipping shut.  _Far too young to lose one, let alone both parents!  _His mind touched on his two younger children, the last great joys in his Aewen's life before she had been so cruelly taken from them.  _What will happen to them if I should fall?_ he again wondered.  They would surely be well taken care of—their older siblings and Tanglinna would see to that.  But little Lelemir, his sparkling, smiling little jewel, would blossom in golden beauty without her Ada; and he would not be there to bless her when she came of age, nor to threaten her aspiring paramours, nor to witness her marriage, nor to coddle her children with all the pampering charm of a proper grandparent.

            _And little Greenleaf… Thranduil gave a small, sad smile.  Legolas would grow in grace and strength, would become a young warrior of superb skill and swift reflexes.  He would take on his mother's beauty more as the years lengthened, Thranduil knew, but it would be tempered and solidified by his father's angular features.  _And I will not be there to braid his hair on the day he comes of age,_ the king thought bleakly.  __I will not take him on his first hunt.  I will not evaluate his intended lady, nor give him my blessing on his wedding day, nor welcome his children into the world and tell them discomfiting tales of their _Ada___ in his youth—_

            **_Nonsense,_ a vaguely familiar voice snapped, dispersing the despondent deliberations like a flock of startled crows from a shaken tree.  _Where is your strength gone to, Thranduil son of Oropher of Ossiriand?  Do you so readily accept defeat from such lowly swine as this Ducash and his creatures?_**

            Thranduil blinked in surprise.  The demanding voice echoing in his ears sounded somewhat like Oropher himself, but Thranduil also heard Astalaewen's ringing tone, and Tanglinna's, and even his own, all overlapping in a sharp, insistent chorus.  _Nay,_ he answered vehemently, _I accept no defeat.  He straightened his spine, ignoring the hot twinges in his right shoulder and sore back.  Wintry hatred transformed the silveron gaze to pure steel, and he shot a moment's open glare at the two guards seated at the mouth of the tent.  _The Lord of __Greenwood___ the Great accepts defeat from no one.  And with that resolute avowal came a breathed prayer, delivered on a silent glance toward the cloth above him and the endless sky beyond.  _I must live.  I **will** live.  For my children's sake, Lady Elbereth, give me the strength!__

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**Acknowledgements:**

Merethen, Lelemir, the Rhûkhara tribe, Sathak, et al belong to Katharine.

*Sigh*  Oh, all right, Katharine has a confession to make.  *clears throat*  Ducash, his cronies, and all his horrible antics are entirely the products of my sick and twisted little mind.  The lovely TreeHugger bears absolutely no responsibility for the Very Bad Man™'s dreadful misdeeds toward our favorite Elvenking.  There, I said it!  *bravely shields poor Tree from the enraged readership's review-missiles*  _Yaaaaah!_

_Car an Neled, Tanglinna, the Trio, et al, however, still belong to TreeHugger, and aren't we all _extremely_ grateful for her wonderfully cute Elflings in this wretched tale?  ^_^_

Scary Saeros the Tracker, of course, belongs to JastaElf, and we all love him as well.  *winking grin*

Oh, and Master Tolkien owns everything that we don't claim.  Which is basically everything except our own stuff.  Right.

**Translations:**

_Pen-tithen = Sindarin, "little one"_

_Cwen = Sindarin derivative, "princess" (Kate and Tree couldn't find an actual listing, so Kate extrapolated this based upon existing trends within the language… forgive her audacity! ^_~)_

_Tithen min = Sindarin, "my little one"_

**Replies to reviews:**

_Well, well, the replies seemed VERY well-received last time, so here we go again!  Enjoy!  ^_^_

Once again, the bland room in the Realm of Impossibility.  The same computer, tuned in to one Fanfiction.net.  Three small Elflings stared at the glowing screen, mesmerized.

            "Is that it?" Tavor asked, pointing at the strange machine.  He was certain that he didn't look frightened at all, that his face was a perfect mask of indifference.  After all, he was a Soon-To-Be-Warrior, and learning to mask one's fears was something that warriors did all the time.  The Soon-To-Be-Warrior could not have known that his eyes were, in fact, flung wide with obvious dismay, and his face had turned a sickly grayish-green color.

            Legolas nodded and grinned, enjoying his friends' discomfort.  Tavor looked like he would turn and flee at the slightest provocation.  He looked truly frightened!  Of course, the princeling would never tell how fearful he had been the first time he had seen the wonderful device…and since Tavor and Brethil hadn't been there to witness it, they would never know.  Legolas' grin widened, and with the loftiest tone he could manage, he proclaimed, "Yes, that is it.  It contains many stories, and…other wonderful things."

            "Didn't your ada tell you not to touch it?"  Brethil whispered, eyeing the machine distrustfully.  "He said that you were not to read anything written there, not when he wasn't here."  He glanced sideways at Legolas, wondering how much trouble they would be in before they left this place.  But then his face brightened.  "Do people really read stories about us?"

            Legolas grinned at him, nodding.  "Yes, they do.  They love us!  But don't worry.  I am just showing you this magic screen, and Ada won't mind that…at least, I don't think he will."  Legolas glanced around, suddenly wondering just where his Ada was.  Changing the subject, he remarked, "It's like magic, isn't it?"  

            "It does look magic," Tavor agreed in a low voice.  "Your Ada knows how to make it do its magic, right?  Just like Mithrandir?"

            "Of course," Legolas said proudly.  "My Ada knows how to do lots of things."

"Can't we just…take a peek?"  Tavor suggested, edging toward the computer, knowing full well that Legolas would stop him before he actually got close enough to touch it.  Or before it bit him.

            Legolas glanced behind him once again, feeling rather guilty.  He wondered when his Ada would arrive, and if he would catch them standing too close to the magic machine, and what he would do if they did get caught.  Curiosity, however, won out over good reason, as was usually the case with young Elves.  "Well, maybe if we are quick," he decided.

            The Elflings edged forward, eyeing one another, each hoping one of his fellows would back out and prevent them from doing anything that would get them into trouble.  Just as they came within arm's reach of the computer, however, King Thranduil and Tanglinna appeared behind them.

Brethil just happened to glance back, and he gasped, yanking on his friends' tunics.  "Legolas!  Tavor!" he hissed, grey eyes widening in alarm.

            "Quiet, Brethil!  Ada might hear you!" Legolas whispered fiercely, swatting at the other Elfling's hand.

            "Legolas!" a familiar voice said scoldingly.

            Legolas did turn then, and his eyes fell on the two tall Elves standing behind Brethil.  The prince gulped slightly and grabbed Tavor's arm.  Tavor jumped and yelped, spinning around in a mild panic.  The evil machine was about to bite them, just as he had feared!  But no, he realized, it wasn't the machine they had to fear.  He moaned lowly, and his mouth twisted with dismay.

Thranduil and Tanglinna did not look amused.  The Master Archer moved swiftly to insert himself between the little Elves and the computer, his back to the machine.  He folded his long arms over his chest, his silver eyes narrowed in disapproval.

"What have you done now, little Greenleaf?" Thranduil asked.

            Legolas grimaced and ran one foot in a complicated pattern over the floor.  "We were just…just…I was just showing them the magic screen, Ada."

Thranduil raised one dark brow.  "Ah.  And what did you see on the magic screen, _nin__ iôn?"_

            "We didn't see anything, Ada.  Truly."

            "We didn't," Brethil chimed in, glancing earnestly from Thranduil to Tanglinna and back again.  "You came in before we could."

            Tavor frowned and edged slightly behind Legolas.  "We didn't see anything, _aranhîr_," he managed, gazing up at his formidable ruler, his dark grey eyes wide.  He tried his best to look as calm and confident as his grandmother did whenever she faced Legolas' intimidating Ada, but failed miserably, and ended up looking even more sickly and pale than before.

"Hmph.  Well then, shall we get started?  We have been somewhat remiss in answering these delightful reviewers!"  Thranduil moved past Tanglinna as he spoke, quirking an amused smile.  The Master Archer responded with only the slightest grunt of acknowledgement.  "Let us see what our adoring devotees had to say about that last chapter," Greenwood's king continued, rubbing his palms together in anticipation.

            "They love my Ada," Legolas whispered to his friends with a proud grin.  "Lots."

            Thranduil seated himself regally in the strange chair and quickly scanned the first review.  "Ha!" he exclaimed triumphantly.  "What did I tell you, Tanglinna!  **JastaElf** was the first reviewer for the last chapter!"

            "Smugness is hardly becoming in a king of Elves, _aranhîr_," Tanglinna replied, arching one expressive brow and rolling his silvery eyes.

            "Nonsense, Tanglinna," Thranduil said dismissively.  "I am always becoming, regardless of my mood."  He read a little further, and gave a satisfied chuckle.  "You simply must see this review.  Turn and look!" 

            Tanglinna glanced sharply at the three Elflings, who knew very well what that particular glare (commonly known as the _Or_ Else_ glare) meant: they were not to move one step toward the computer…__or else.  Having delivered the ages-old threat, Tanglinna then turned as directed and gazed at the computer screen through narrowed eyes._

            "She says she loves me," Thranduil whispered with a grin, "more than you.  Look," and he pointed at the screen, his smile widening, "she said she would lick spider venom from my toes if I asked her to."

            "That, _aran brannon nin, is positively revolting," Tanglinna remarked loftily.  "In fact, were I faced with such a prospect, I would likely leave your toes to rot, rather than put my mouth anywhere near them.  Ah, and Lady Jasta also wants a hug from you.  And a kiss!"  His mouth turned upwards in a meaningful smirk.  "Mm, would you enjoy kissing someone whose lips are dripping with spider venom recently sucked from your feet?"  When he received no answer aside from the three Elflings' muffled giggles, Tanglinna shrugged and continued reading the review.  "Hmph.  She calls me 'Old Sourpuss,' and in the same breath requests a… a gift?"  The silver-haired archer snorted and turned his back on the screen at last, again facing the young Elves clustered a short distance away._

Thranduil gave a light cough, signaling his intention to move on.  "Jasta sends her love to you as well, Little Greenleaf," he called over his shoulder.

            "What are they talking about?"  Brethil asked lowly, his face filled with confusion.

            "Gross stuff, mushy stuff," the prince confided in a whisper.  "Kissing and stuff like that."

            "Kissing?  Really?"  Tavor's eyes lit up.  "Kissing _girls?_"

Legolas and Brethil both stared at their older friend in disbelief, and then glanced at each other.  "Okaaay," Legolas muttered lowly.

            Thranduil was speaking to Tanglinna again.  "Ah, Tanglinna, you will like this one.  **Nilmandra **says that you should be 'creative' in your punishment of the 'bad little Elflings.'  Fancy that, eh?"

            Legolas' eyes widened.  "What did we do now?" he squeaked, staring up at the Master Archer in alarm.

            "I wouldn't know where to begin in answer to that question, _nin__ caun_," Tanglinna replied with a somewhat discomfiting smile.  "Perhaps she could suggest something for the next time you get into trouble."

            Brethil tugged on Legolas' sleeve and whispered fiercely into the princeling's ear.  "Legolas, I thought you said these people _liked_ us!"

"Along the same line, Legolas, **daw **says that your silver tongue is 'talent gone to the bad,'" Thranduil continued.  He turned in the chair to quirk one dark brow at his child.  "Do you see, Little Greenleaf?  You really must learn to behave yourself."

            Legolas scuffed the floor with his boot, his bottom lip thrust out in a highly adorable pout.  "Yes, Ada.  I know."

            Tavor snickered, but quickly covered his mouth as Tanglinna's Arched-Brow Hawk-Glare fell on him.  "That applies to all three of you, Tavor," the tall Silvan said reprovingly.

            "Yes, Master Tanglinna.  I know," the child muttered, dropping his gaze to the floor.  He glanced over at Legolas from beneath his lashes.  The young prince shrugged, and couldn't quite contain the grin that tugged at his lips.

Thranduil continued reading through the review.  "daw liked me as a child, though," he chuckled.

            "Hmph, there are quite a few tales I could spin concerning you and your own youth, _aranhîr_," Tanglinna remarked with a surprisingly impish grin and a wink at the Elflings.  "You presented an entirely new facet of 'talent gone to the bad.'"

            The king narrowed his eyes and snorted.  "I have no idea what you are talking about.  I was the perfect child, as you well know."

"Oh, really?"  Tanglinna tapped one finger against his chin, feigning a thoughtful frown.  "Then, pray tell, who was it that—"

            "Ah, Elflings," Thranduil interrupted hastily.  "**PuterPatty** thinks that all three of you are adorable.  She says that she loves you in especial, Tavor.  And," he tossed a small grin over his shoulder, "she sends you _smooches."_

            Tavor gasped, his eyes widening in shock.  He started forward, hoping to glimpse the magic screen and touch the words typed by PuterPatty, but a warning grunt from Tanglinna stopped the Elfling in his tracks.  "She loves me?" he murmured, a dreamy grin spreading over his fair features.  "She is a girl, and she _loves_ me?  And she sent me smooches?"

            Tanglinna sighed and shook his head.  "Now look what you have done," he said reprovingly.  "He will be quite useless for some time."

            "She sends smooches to you as well, Tanglinna," Thranduil replied, and a fiendish grin tugged at his lips as he added, "and she says 'growl.'"

            "'Growl?'"  Brethil echoed, knitting his brows.  "What does that mean?  What is wrong with your cheeks, Master Tanglinna?  They are awfully red."

            Thranduil gave a snort of laughter.  "To borrow a phrase from Legolas, it is mushy stuff, Brethil.  Mushy stuff."  The king chuckled as he resumed reading.  "Speaking of Legolas, it appears that **Undomiel Greenleaf is more than prepared to defend you from Master Tanglinna, _nin__ iôn." _**

            "Her name is 'Greenleaf' too?"  The princeling blinked.  "I thought I was the only one."

"Maybe it's Lord Elrond's daughter, Arwen, playing a joke on us," Brethil suggested.  "Isn't her name 'Undómiel' too?"

            Legolas shrugged in response.  "Maybe.  Don't let _Tavor_ hear you say that, though; he'll probably melt into a puddle."  He intentionally said his friend's name loudly to see if he could snap Tavor out of his wistful trance, but it was to no avail.  The prince shook his head and gave Brethil a mock mournful look.  "Brethil, my friend, we have lost a good Elfling today."

            Brethil nodded seriously, not at all understanding.

            Thranduil, meanwhile, continued reading with a raised brow.  "Hm, I see Undomiel claims to be the originator of _that_ nickname I so detest," he muttered.  "But, since she likes me the best—"    

"What nickname is that, your Majesty?"  Brethil asked curiously.  "I didn't know that kings could have nicknames."

            Tanglinna smiled down at the child, ignoring Thranduil's warning hiss.  "Everyone can have a nickname, Brethil.  Even the great king _Thrandy."_

            "Thrandy?"  Brethil repeated, grimacing slightly.  "King Thrandy.  That is a rather…nice name, I suppose.  It rhymes with _candy, after all."_

            The Master Archer gave a choked guffaw, barely able to contain his mirth.  "_Aranhîr,_ I do believe the child may have hit upon something.  Mayhap you can put candy on your toes in place of spider venom.  Great King Thrandy the Tasty, they would call you!"

            "As I was _saying," the Great King Thrandy said loudly, his tipped ears reddening, "**Tamsin FlameArrow **calls you __Tanny, O Master Archer.  Hardly a dignified or particularly imposing nickname, eh?"_

            "Thrandy and Tanny?"  Legolas snickered.  "Thrandy and Tanny?"  Two pairs of narrowed eyes suddenly zeroed in on the youngling, and he choked down a fit of giggles.  "Oh!  Yes, well.  No, I guess that doesn't sound as funny as I thought."

"I guess everyone does have a nickname," Brethil murmured, staring at the two elder Elves in wonder.

            "She loves me," Tavor sighed happily.  "PuterPatty loves me."

            All eyes turned to Laureahiril's young grandson.  His dark grey gaze shone brightly, with an odd sort of light that was baffling to his friends and instantly recognizable to the adults.

            "I told you he would be of no use for a while," Tanglinna muttered, punctuating the remark with a low harrumph.

            Thranduil shook his golden head in amusement and peered at the computer screen once more.  "Hm, younglings, it seems that **kellen enjoyed your prank," he remarked, smiling indulgently.  "She says that it sounds like some of the pranks she and her own friends have played."**

"She sounds like trouble to me," Tanglinna grunted disapprovingly.

            "She sounds like fun to me," Legolas leaned over and whispered in Brethil's ear, grinning mischievously.

Brethil nodded.  "Me, too, but what prank did we play?  Did you and Tavor do something without me?"

            Legolas was surprised at the hurt look in his friend's pale grey eyes.  "No, of course not!  It's the prank in the story, not a real one."

            "Oh, good."  Brethil gave a relieved smile.  "So, what did we do in the story?"

            Legolas shrugged.  "I have no idea, but whatever it was, the readers thought it was very funny.  Maybe if we get a look at the screen, we can see what we did in the story, and then actually do it!"

            Brethil's expression crumpled.  "Oh, no!  Do you know how much trouble we'll be in if—"

            "…but kellen says she adores you, Tanglinna," Thranduil was saying, tapping the computer monitor for emphasis.  "Right here, see?"

            "Did she growl, too?"  Brethil asked curiously, watching in fascination as the archer's ears turned crimson once again.

"No, she didn't growl," Thranduil chuckled.  The king lowered his voice enough so that only Tanglinna could hear him.  "She wants me to be tortured, too, so long as I recover afterwards."  Greenwood's lord shook his head and grinned smugly.  "I told you it would work, Tanglinna.  This sort of tale gets them every time!"

            "You are wise and good, _aranhîr_," Tanglinna sighed, staring at the ceiling with a supremely long-suffering expression.

            "Good and wise," Legolas and Brethil corrected simultaneously, and they both giggled.  Then, almost as an afterthought, they glanced over at Tavor to see if he had heard them and would properly congratulate them on it.

            Tavor, however, continued to stare into empty space, murmuring his doe-eyed litany of, "She loves me.  PuterPatty loves me…"

            "I see what you mean, Tanglinna," Thranduil said lowly, one brow raised.  "Quite useless."

            "What _is wrong with Tavor?" Brethil asked, staring at his elder friend in amazement._

            Legolas shrugged and shook his head, surreptitiously trying to peer around Tanglinna at the computer screen.

            "None of that, youngling," the archer reprimanded with a frown. "You know the rules."

            "You sound rather like the teacher that **erunyauve** mentioned in her review, Tanglinna," Thranduil said. "Her best English teacher, to be exact."

            "What is English?"  Brethil whispered to Legolas, not wanting to look to like he didn't know what they were talking about.

            "I think it is something like Westron," the prince shrugged, not wanting to look like he didn't know what he was talking about, "or maybe it has to do with commas and grammar and boring stuff like that."

            "Ah," Thranduil continued with a smile of satisfaction.  "**addicted** says that I may come and visit her anytime."  Suddenly, he flashed eight fingers in the air at Tanglinna, his slight smile changing to a full-blown smug grin.

            Tanglinna frowned.  "What is that supposed to mean, _aranhîr?_" he asked, glancing over to see if the Elflings comprehended this mysterious signal.  The three of them, however, looked just as perplexed as he did—all except Tavor, who was still whispering dreamily about PuterPatty.

            "That is how many reviewers have mentioned me," Thranduil declared in a gratified voice, his silver eyes shining.

            Tanglinna blinked slowly, and turned to stare at the king.  "Is that so?  You are still keeping track of that, are you?"

            Thranduil leaned back in the chair, stretching his arms over his head.  "Of course I am.  Do you want to know how many have mentioned you, Old Sourpuss?"

            Legolas let out a squeak of laughter at the moniker, but quickly clamped his hand over his mouth when Tanglinna turned to glare at him.  The prince shrugged apologetically and looked at the floor.

            "Are you keeping track of that, as well, _aranhîr?_"  Tanglinna asked nonchalantly, folding his arms across his chest.

            "Well, no.  I thought you would be.  Here, let me count."  Greenwood's king turned back to the screen, scrolling through the reviews he had already read.  "Hmph.  That is interesting.  You have eight, as well."

            Tanglinna managed to keep the telltale smile from his lips.

            Thranduil scowled slightly, but shook his head dismissively and began reading the next review.

            Tanglinna smirked and flashed eight fingers at the Elflings.

            "What are they doing?"  Brethil whispered at Legolas, wondering if the king and the Master Archer were learning some type of new magic that made the magic screen work.

            "How many do we have, Ada?"  Legolas burst out before he could answer Brethil, dancing up and down on the balls of his feet in excitement.

            "See what you have started now?"  Tanglinna asked reproachfully as he turned to read over Thranduil's shoulder.

            "If it keeps up like this, 'Tanny,' you will have to hug the computer screen after all," Thranduil countered as he tallied the Elflings' points.

            "I want to hug PuterPatty," Tavor piped up, moving to stand by Brethil and smiling at him in such a manner that Brethil eased away and moved to stand at Legolas' other side.

            "Little Greenleaf, you and your friends have...mm…most interesting.  Eight."

            "Eight!" Little Greenleaf whooped, and jumped into the air, flashing eight fingers at anyone who would look.

            "We all have eight," Brethil said with a puzzled look on his face.  "What game are we playing?"

            "It is not a game, Brethil," Thranduil answered, hiding a grin.  "But if Master Tanglinna gets the same number of points as I do, then he must hug the computer screen for the reviewers."

            "What?!  I never agreed to that!" Tanglinna protested.

            "You don't have to agree with me, you just have to do it.  And now, thanks to **Pasta-Head**, who waves to 'the review board,' which is all of us, it looks like you might have to," Thranduil chuckled, immensely pleased with his latest scheme.

            "I will not!"  Tanglinna muttered darkly, scowling at his king.

            "Yes, you will.  I am the king, and I am telling you that you will.  The younglings will enjoy it, too.  Won't you?"  Thranduil turned in his chair to look at the three Elflings, smiling reassuringly at them.

            "Yes!  We would!"  Legolas blurted out with a crow of laughter, then clamped his hand over his mouth once more when Tanglinna raised one silver brow.  "I mean, uh—"

            "Exactly," Thranduil cut in, grinning triumphantly, and turned to face the monitor once more.  Suddenly, he burst into peals of laughter.  Tanglinna glanced over his shoulder in surprise, and Legolas and Brethil actually jumped, startled.  Even Tavor seemed to awaken from the Patty-induced stupor he had fallen into.

            "Well, well, it seems that our fans know us entirely too well," the King of Greenwood remarked between snickers.  "**Lily Frost**'s first words are, and I quote, 'Don't argue, we love all you guys.'  It sounds like she would fit in quite well with the younglings, eh Tanglinna?  She has an affinity for small crawly things."

            "Does he mean us?"  Brethil whispered into Legolas' ear.  "Are we small crawly things?"

            "No…I think he meant something else…I hope," the princeling whispered back, looking none to certain of this.

            "Do we get to count the crawly things for us?"  Brethil asked, staring down at his fingers.

            "Of course you do, Brethil," Thranduil answered with a chuckle.  "We all stand at ten now.  **Invader Iggle** brings us all to eleven.  And moving right along—"

            "Ah ah ah," Tanglinna interjected, peering over the king's shoulder once more.  "I see why you are in such a hurry, _nin__ aranhîr.  You were going to skip over the part where **Invader Iggle** said that I am 'REEEEEAlly cool,' mm?  I see.  Please continue."  He straightened and turned back to the younglings, then mouthed, "I am reeeeally cool."_

            Legolas blinked and managed a confused smile.  Someone actually thought that Tanglinna was cool?  

            "Now, to deflate that head of your, Tanglinna," Thranduil continued, "**Seaweed** loved the prank the younglings played on you.  She even thinks they should set spiders loose in the palace.  AND she calls me good and wise AND cool."  The king leaned back smugly, turning his head to gaze up at the Master Archer.  "AND she says that we should maybe tie you to the computer screen, Tanglinna.  I like her!"

            Tanglinna scowled and turned to stare at the screen with a disapproving frown.  "What does she know?  She likes that dwarf, after all."

            Thranduil winked at the younglings before continuing in his reading.

            "What dwarf is he talking about, Legolas?"  Brethil whispered.

            "Shut up, Brethil," Thranduil said quietly, smirking at the screen.  "Actually, this says 'No "shut up, Brethil."'  I think **Laura **likes all of your chatter."

            "Laura?  Laura!  Laura!!  I know Laura!" Bronadui's son said excitedly, his grey eyes bright.  "_Mae govannen_, Laura!  How are you?  I am so glad you left a review.  Do you want to know what is going to happen now?  I would tell you only I don't know myself, but I am certain that—"

            "Shut up, Brethil!"  Thranduil and Tanglinna said in unison, quirking amused grins at each other.

            "What?  I didn't tell her anything," Brethil muttered in consternation.

            Thranduil turned a kind smile on the youngling.  "Yes, well, don't."  He glanced back at the screen, and a deep rumble of laughter again escaped.  "Ah, Legolas, **aranel_elf** is offering to marry you."

            The prince's cheeks reddened, and he choked out, "Marry me?  _Marry_ me?!"

            "We could get married together, Legolas," Tavor said.  "You could marry aranel_elf and I could marry," his eyes softened and he clasped his hands at his breast, "PuterPatty."

            "No one is getting married any time soon, Tavor," Thranduil said with a shake of his head.  "But I wonder about this 'small fee.'  Does she mean she will pay me to marry you?  Hmm.  I wonder what she would pay for that privilege."

            Legolas stared at his father in disbelief.  "Ada!"

            Thranduil chuckled.  "I am just teasing you, Little Greenleaf," he assured, but then he leaned closer to the screen and whispered, "What is your offer, aranel_elf?  Because it looks like **gapofrohan** thinks Legolas is very cute, and she may want to offer something for him as well.  Ah!  And she thinks _I am cute too!"  The king grinned as he sat back up and shot a glance at the Master Archer.  "She thinks I am cute," he repeated.  "That puts the younglings at fifteen, Tanglinna.  It appears they are winning this round."_

            "Fifteen!"  Legolas chortled, clapping his hands and high-fiving Brethil, who looked as perplexed as ever.  

            "I thought this wasn't a game," he said with a frown.

            Legolas leaned against him and whispered conspiratorially, "It is."

            "**Jay of Lasgalen** wants to copyright 'Poor Thranduil.'  I guess we should let her; after all, I know she likes me a lot," Thranduil remarked as he read on.  "Very well.  Ahem.  I, King Thranduil of Greenwood the Great, hereby declare that Jay of Lasgalen has officially copyrighted 'Poor Thranduil' for the duration of this tale."

            "Why are they calling your Ada 'poor,' Legolas?"  Brethil asked lowly, wondering how the king could find that amusing.  "He has more jewels than anyone I know."

            "That word is just one of the mysterious things that the reviewers like to say.  It must be magic or something.  Maybe they can't talk to us if they don't say 'poor somebody,' or something," Legolas shrugged.

            "**Emma the Lame** has given us twenty-four exclamation points.  That is wonderful!" Thranduil said approvingly, scanning the review board.  "She likes us all, and she thinks that we are clever for responding to them.  I think I like her.  Thank you, Emma.  We are very clever indeed."  He then felt Tanglinna's stare boring into him, and turned to raise a brow at the archer.  "You don't think we are clever?" the king asked pointedly.

            Tanglinna cleared his throat and gestured at the screen.  "This is taking an incredibly long time for some one who is so clever, _aranhîr_.  Keep reading."

            "Hmph.  Some people have no sense of humor.  Very well."  Thranduil turned back to the monitor.  "Legolas gets two points from **the evil witch queen**.  One for being so cute—which she says you do get from your mother, Little Greenleaf—and one for your evilness or pestiness, which you apparently got from me."  Thranduil snorted.  "I can't imagine why she would think I am pesty."

            "Maybe I told her," Tanglinna smirked.

            "I doubt it, since she calls _you_ 'Old Sourpuss,'"  Thranduil smirked back.

            "Old Sourpuss!"  Legolas giggled.  "That name seems to be very popular.  Erm. That is…it really is too bad that someone called you that, Master Tanglinna."

            "You said it first, Legolas," Brethil reminded quietly.  "At least, I think you did."

            Legolas turned to glare threateningly at Brethil.

            "Now, now.  None of that.  We all have nicknames, after all," Thranduil said calmly.

            "Thrandy knows best, younglings," Tanglinna quipped, grinning.

            "Don't call me that, _Tanny_, or you will be sorry," the king rejoined with a growl.

            "I am shaking in my boots already, _aranhîr_."

            Thranduil ignored his Master Archer's comment.  "It looks like you had better get **Noone** to join your archery practice, Little Greenleaf.  She is having quite a time with her bow, it seems.  She said that she will leave that bow to Brethil in her will.  Or her flute perhaps.  And she thinks Brethil is a sweetheart as well."  He chuckled.  "She wonders what you would think if you could see me as a child, Little Greenleaf.  Isn't that sweet?"

            "Shall we tell Legolas about your younger days, _aranhîr?_"  Tanglinna teased.  "There are many stories I could tell about you."

            "Now is not the time for that," Thranduil hedged with a frown.  "We are in a hurry here, as you pointed out earlier.  **Dragon_of_the_north** gives you three smiles, Little Greenleaf. And three smiles to me as well.  But she thinks you deserved to have the prank played on you, Tanglinna.  Not because you are an Old Sourpuss, but because you were going to let the Elflings hunt the squirrels.  Then she gives you three smiles as well."

"Dragon_of_the_north, my dear," Tanglinna muttered, smiling wolfishly, "if you keep that up, I shall just continue to haunt you."

            "Haunt?  What does that mean?"  Brethil asked.

            "Never you mind that, youngling, never you mind," Thranduil responded quickly.  "**Hiro-tyre** is in need of rescuing, so I will try to make this reply run more quickly.  It appears that she wants the 'Hurricane TreeKate' to lift her from the Impatient Pit.  Hmm…it seems the reviewers think that our dear authoresses are writing this tale too slowly.  Haste is needed, indeed!"  The king leaned back in his chair and gazed speculatively at the monitor.  "Now, let me see what the tally is.  Little Greenleaf, you are in the lead with twenty-one, I am in second place with twenty, and Tanglinna, you have fallen behind with nineteen.  Too bad, eh?  I want you to hug this machine!"

            "I won't hug it," the archer muttered.

            "We shall see.  Ah!  Look!  **Earl Grey** liked it when Legolas and I hugged the monitor the last time!"  Thranduil nudged his Master Archer.  "You see?  They want it, Tanglinna!  Our fans enjoy that intimate touch from us.  You _will hug it before this tale is over!  I will order you if I must…or get Seaweed's rope."_

            Tanglinna stood with his back to the king, affording the younglings the full brunt of his scowl.  

            Thranduil hid his smile.  "She also liked the prank, and said she laughed and laughed at the squirrels."

            "What squirrels?" Brethil whispered, and Legolas replied with his customary shrug.  None of them knew what the prank was, only that it had to do with squirrels and Master Tanglinna.

            "Look here, Tanglinna," Thranduil continued, "Earl calls me Great—with a capital _G.  How very kind!  You see, they do like me.  I knew there must have been some mistake with all those evil Thranduil tales out there."  The king scanned through the next review.  "Ah, this should please you, Brethil.  **EMerald QUeen** thinks we should let you talk all you like, as well.  My, but that would never do!  We would be sitting here all day and achieve nothing if we let him do that."_

            "Rather like we are doing right now, you mean?"  Tanglinna asked, turning to the king.  "Only it isn't Brethil that is taking quite so long to say something, is it?"

            Thranduil narrowed his eyes, his lips thrusting out in a pout.  "I don't know what you mean, Tanglinna.  And it seems that EMerald QUeen  is a bit of a prankster herself!  She would fit right in with you three younglings!  She says that she may have Brethilitis!  That is not good.  It appears to have made its way into their world! Oh dear, look here, Tanglinna.  She sounds quite upset."

            "Ah, yes," the Master Archer murmured, reading through Emerald's last outburst.  "One hundred and thirty-two exclamation points.  She does sound upset about that, erm, incident, doesn't she?  Don't worry, EMerald QUeen .  Both Brethil and I haunt TreeHugger every day over that one!"

            "What is he talking about?  Haunting?  Are there ghosts in that machine?" Brethil asked, eyeing the computer fearfully.

            Legolas shook his head.  "I don't know."

Tavor stared off into space and murmured, "I will haunt PuterPatty if she will let me."

            Thranduil snorted with laughter.  "Well, Tanglinna, they are clamoring for you to hug this screen!  **Hildestohl **thinks you might do it when no one is watching.  Did you sneak in here after we left the last time, mm?"

            "I did not!" the archer huffed.  "Who ever heard of hugging a computer screen, anyway!"

            "We shall see," Thranduil answered in a singsong voice.  "Hildestohl draws pictures of us!  How wonderful!  I am certain that they are quite lovely.  Ha!  And she wants to know how old the Old Sourpuss really is!"

            Tanglinna harrumphed low in his chest.  "Well, I am _not as old as dirt.  That distinction belongs to Saeros the Tracker.  Just ask JastaElf.  And oh, greetings to you as well, Saeros."_

            "Hildestohl is a very affectionate thing," Thranduil said with a smile.  "She sends hugs and says she loves us all, even  those squirrels.  Maybe you should send some to live with her, Tanglinna."

            "Could we?" Brethil chimed in.  "Would you like that, Hildestohl?"

            "Not now, Brethil.  Let me finish here, then we will discuss the squirrels," Thranduil told the Elfling.  "Well, well.  **Mickie** says that the Tricksy Trio reminds her of herself, her sister, and their friend.  It seems there are many people out there with a penchant for getting into trouble."

            "Yes, there are," Tanglinna remarked dryly.  "Did I mention the time that a youngling named Thranduil—"

            "As I was saying," the king interrupted with a frown, "Mickie mentions that 'haunting' event in chapter five of _that_ story as well.  She cried over it.  We should send her a red hanky for that, don't you think?"

            "We should, she seems very sentimental about it.  Poor Mickie."  The Master Archer smiled.  "Tell her that the author of _that_ tale has been duly haunted about chapter five."

            "There are ghosts!" Brethil gasped, darting a fearful glance around the room. "There are ghosts!"

            "No, there aren't.  He is only teasing," Legolas muttered, shaking his head, but looking about nonetheless.  "Are you really going to send a squirrel to Hildestohl?"

            "Maybe you should send one to Mickie, as well," Thranduil suggested.  "That would be two less squirrels to worry about."

            "Send one to PuterPatty!" Tavor piped.  "And tell her it was from me!  With smoochies!"

            "There are several reviewers, including **angaloth** that feel rather sorry for you, Tanglinna," Thranduil remarked.  "The Elflings _should_ be glad that their squirrels didn't hurt your picture, eh?"

            "Yes, they should be very glad indeed," the archer said quietly, with a stern glance at the three young Elves, who looked daunted and just a smidgen confused—after all, they still had no idea what their story selves had done to affront Master Tanglinna.

            "angaloth also thinks that the authors of this tale are very slow to update.  How very true that is!  You had better get after them, Tanglinna.  I want to know what befalls 'Poor Thranduil' copyright Jay of Lasgalen, and that VBM," Thranduil added, scowling darkly.

            "VBM?  What does that mean?"  Legolas asked, trying once more to see around the Master Archer.

            "I know!"  Brethil proclaimed with a gasp.  "Very Big Mouse!  You have a pet mouse, do you, King Thranduil?  Can I see it some time?  Does it know any tricks?"

            "Very Big Mouse?"  Thranduil mouthed at Tanglinna, and then turned to look at Brethil, who looked very excited by the prospect of seeing the giant rodent.  The king looked down at the computer's mouse and frowned.  "It doesn't look very big to me."

            Tanglinna shrugged and shook his head.  "How many more, _aranhîr?_  The day grows late, and the younglings are missing their practice…again."

            "Well, **Hiro-Tyre** reviews again and sounds very distressed, so I had really better hurry along here.  **The Teenage Angst Brigade** says that she 'wuvs Legolas,' and she says I am a GOOD Ada."  A very pleased smile spread over the king's handsome face.  "I am so glad that people realize that I am not the Bad Man that some have mistaken me for in the past.  Things are looking up for me…finally."  Thranduil sighed.  "Thus, this session is concluded.  All further reviews will wait until next time.  All right, Little Greenleaf.  You and your friends may hug the screen and depart.  Tanglinna will be expecting you at archery practice the moment he returns."

            Legolas grinned happily and moved to hug the screen, enfolding the cold plastic and glass in a loving embrace.  Brethil did the same after eyeing the machine suspiciously, wondering if perhaps the Very Big Mouse lived inside it, and just how big the Very Big Mouse could be.  

Lastly, Tavor leapt forward and enthusiastically hugged the screen.  "I love you too, PuterPatty," he whispered, planting a kiss firmly on the screen.

            "Enough, Tavor.  Now go home.  We will join you shortly," Thranduil said.

            "But, Ada, who won the game, erm, not-a-game?"  Legolas asked.

            "You did, Little Greenleaf," the king sighed.

            Legolas whooped happily and wound his arms through those of his friends.  "We are SO popular!  I love it!" he exclaimed, before the three vanished from sight.

            "Well, well," Thranduil said, leaning back in the chair.  "This has been most interesting and productive, wouldn't you say?"

            "And extremely long," Tanglinna pointed out, looking at the number of pages that the review responses had taken up.  "Very long, indeed."

            "Ah, well, they do love us, and it is very nice to be able to chat with them, don't you think?"  The king grinned and flashed both his hands at Tanglinna twice, and then flashed six more fingers.  "Twenty-six!  I am SO popular!"

            Tanglinna stared down at him, one silvery brow raised.  "Yes, you are.  It must be good to be king."

            "Oh, yes it is.  You are just jealous, because you only had twenty-five.  Or perhaps you are jealous because the 'Very Big Mouse' is torturing me instead of you."

            Tanglinna snorted.  "I wonder what he would say to being called the Very Big Mouse."

            "I doubt that one would see the humor in it," Thranduil conceded with a frown.

            "All the same, I am glad that I am not the king," Tanglinna said, then harrumphed.

            "Thank the One for that," the two murmured simultaneously.

            They gazed at one another, and then a smile touched Tanglinna's lips, and Thranduil chuckled as he rose to his feet.  "Shall we?" he said, gesturing at the ceiling.

            "You are forgetting something, _aranhîr_," Tanglinna reminded.

            "What is that?  Ah, yes."  Thranduil turned back to the screen and placed his strong arms about it, dutifully hugging it.   "Perhaps next time it will be your turn to hug it, Tanglinna.  Of course, there is always that rope."

            "I think not," Tanglinna muttered, rolling his eyes.

            "We shall see," Thranduil chuckled.

And the Realm of Impossibility faded out once more, sending the two Elves back into the forest from whence they had come…**__**

****

****_*Katharine goes slightly ga-ga over the prospect of munching candy off of The Great King Thrandy's tasty toes*  Mm… Hershey kisses and Elves go together well, no?  *Big sigh*  Hmph, after all the crap I've put him through, I'd be lucky if the good king let me suck **spider venom from his toes…  Oh well, just read the teaser for the next chapter, and be sure to leave a review!  Special thanks to Madame Tree for writing the replies to the reviews for this chapter—they are magnificent, ****melaglar nin!  *waves*  See you all next time!  ^_^**_

            Next chapter… all is not well in the Greenwood, as we shall soon see; between Elflings' nightmares, an edgy archery practice, and Thranduil's eldest daughter, Tanglinna starts to worry…


End file.
